


Labyrinth

by Lurkete



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: (I did make those up), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, I did not make this up, Rescue Missions, Time Travel, Zombie-Minotur-Robots, blame the greeks, it's fanfic, oh well, sort of, this story swings between crack and serious a bit, very kinky mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 04:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurkete/pseuds/Lurkete
Summary: Mrs, Fredric finds out what the Regents have done with Helena, and it's bad.The gang goes down the rabbit hole and it's weirder than they thought.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so: many, many moons ago there was a secret Santa swappy thing over at the girlsgunsfic community that has stopped being active around November 2011, I was supposed to write a fic for someone (whom I cannot even remember anymore) and I didn't since my muse dies mid-writing (it's the damnedest, most frustrating thing). I did not receive one either, so I guess there's that to sooth my guilt :)
> 
> aaaanyway, long story short - I am now on a mission: trying to at least finish fics I have started.  
> Obviously this fic was written before season 2 (!) I figured, at this point closure is more important then a truly epic/elegant/perfect ending (or as one of my animation teachers once said: perfect is the opposite of done), so without further adieu, I give yo Labyrinth.

The truth was, Helena loved Charles.

  
  
The two siblings had the kind of relationship that does not require words to communicate; that is not to say that Helena did not adore hearing Charles' gentle voice talking about his thoughts on history, society and the human condition in general. Helena herself was always the more outgoing one, the problem solver. Her childhood room was literally littered with the fruits of her technical mind, meticulously sketched out on yellowing pages: detailed designs of queer contraptions, carefully cut out articles from science magazines with her own added scribbles and notes, little prototypes and knickknacks made of wood and string and wire. Charles loved sneaking into his sister's room when she was working on her ideas, many times she would lift her eyes from a project to find him quietly staring at her while she tinkered; she'd smile at him – sometimes give him a little wave – and he'd smile back. He never bothered her.

  
  
When Helena was nine and Charles was eight he told her that he'd kissed Henry Parson, the local baker's son. The next day Henry 's older brothers grabbed Charles and threw him out of the bakery's second floor window; Charles injured his leg severely and was bedridden for almost half a year. It was Helena's turn to sneak into his room where they would read and discuss the books their father brought Charles from the local library. For the entire duration of Charles' incapacitation, all of the barker's children found themselves the victims of odd little pranks from seemingly innocent looking traps or unexplained technical failures around the bakery. Helena would like to think that the entire Parson brood had grown up to have a lingering sense of paranoia forever itched into their psyche.

  
  
When Helena was fifteen she started fooling around with girls, she was very good at it. All her conquests were attributed to Charles, a factor that suited them both. They stayed close even after they left their childhood home; if they didn't live in the same house then they arranged to be at least next door neighbors, that way they could cover for each other in case anyone got a little too close to discovering the true nature of their affairs. But mostly they just really loved each other.

  
  
Christina was born unexpectedly; Helena was having one of her rambunctious flings, this time with a man, and was not careful enough. Helena's temperament and hectic work schedule meant that for the longest time she was completely oblivious to anything amiss. By the time Charles noticed his sisters impending condition, she was already 3 months pregnant. Helena was floored.

  
  
This time they got out of the mess with the help of Lady Luck more than any sort of 'Wells wits'. An acquaintance of an acquaintance of Charles' knew of a dying old geezer that would gladly wed any woman willing to withstand his many cats. The wedding was set up immediately; Helena didn't even have to change her last name before the ancient old hooch wheezed his last breath. Helena was an instant widow; her unborn child however would not be labeled a bastard.

  
  
After Christina's birth they moved to the countryside, Charles taught at the local university for fun since his rising status as a prolific writer meant that they could both live quite comfortably. It was a wonderful era for Helena; to her astonishment, she discovered that motherhood was the most fascinating and fulfilling endeavor she had ever partaken in. Christina was a wonder, every day was a new discovery: sometimes comical, sometimes difficult, sometimes peculiar, always amazing.

  
  
Charles was devastated when Christina was murdered; he had been an active influence in his niece's life; his grief was inconsolable. What made it worse was his inability to stem his sister's spiraling decent into self-destruction. His prophetic mind could see it happening right before his eyes, but he was utterly powerless to influence the outcome.

  
  
At least not at the time.


	2. Part 1

It is April 15, 2011 and everything is wrong. It had been wrong for almost a year now, Pete thinks.

 

They've just returned from bagging another artifact. The retrieval was perfectly executed and done in record time. In fact, all their recent retrievals have been done in increasingly better and better record times; soon they'll be running out of seconds.

  
  


Pete looks at his wristwatch. '17:12' blinks back at him in glowing turquoise.

 

"See you at Leena's?" he asks his partner.

 

"Hmm," Myka responds. Not a 'yes' or a 'no', but at least it's an acknowledgment.

 

She goes to Artie's desk, swaps her car keys with the mission report she just finished writing, and is out the door before Pete can bombard her with another rhetorical question.

 

"'See you at Leena's?' come on Pete, you can do better than that," he mumbles to himself as he finishes the little three-panel stick figure comic he's adding at the bottom of his own report – to better illustrate their recent excursion.

 

"How went it P-man?" Claudia asks as she flops down into Myka's recently vacated chair.

 

"Flawless, as per usual."

 

"Hmm. Troubling."

 

"I know, right?"

 

"Hey, don't look at me senior-action-member dude, I don't need special 'hunch' powers to know that, statistically speaking, we should have had some sort of major cluster-fuck happen to us _long_ time ago. It's like we're sitting on Mount Rainier and it has missed its 6-year annual rumble – you just know that next time, that mountain is going to explode extra-hard-with-interest in retaliation."

 

Pete continues sitting with a contemplative frown on his brow, his chin tucked in and his legs stretched and crossed before him. He finishes touching up all his stick-figure-drawings with different hairstyles and then throws the pad and pencil on the table in front of him.

 

"I don't know Claudia," He groans and stretches back on his chair until it tilts, both hands rubbing at his face tiredly. He stands up.

 

"I'm heading out, need a lift back?" He points with his thumb in the direction of the warehouse's exit.

 

"Pete, I'm serious. The Regents might be all content with our creepy-good results, but the _Warehouse itself_ is getting anxious. I know you noticed how twitchy it's become lately; I almost got fried _twice_ just today from the random electrical-wave thingies. This has to stop."

 

"Yeah I've noticed. Maybe Artie can do something about that: Add some Prozac to the purple goo machine, maybe give the old place a new coat of color to make it feel better..."

 

"Yeah right, Artie's counting his lucky stars; he's not going to admit that there's something seriously wrong. come on Pete, you're the only one I know that would not look at me like I'm crazy for wishing that something bad would finally happen."

 

Pete deflates with a sigh.

 

"I know, I know," Pete half agrees, half whines. "Okay, come on lets go."

 

"Yes! Where are we going?"

 

"To Rosa's Coffee Shop and Bakery, I need many cookies to think."

 

* * *

 

An uncharacteristic gasp reverberates off the cavernous space.

 

"So this is where you brought her," the speaker pauses pointedly, somehow managing to convey a monumental amount of disapproval in that single moment of silence. "This is not right!"

 

"She tried to destroy the world! She's worse than Hitler and Stalin combined," a second voice whines.

 

"Bullshit and you know it! She is nothing like those megalomaniacs – they murdered millions of people because of a clear and methodical ideology, not to mention a warped sense of entitlement, of power. Ms. Wells on the other hand did what she did because life had broken her – she was suicidal. Regardless, what is most important is that she _did not succeed_. In fact, a few harsh words from a dear friend is all it took to stop her." A heavy sigh is heard before the voice continues. "Exceedingly troubled, yes. Dangerously brilliant, yes. But Helena G. Wells is no mass murderer and you know it. This, right here, is wrong."

 

The two figures look down silently from where they stand atop one of the raised balcony-like platforms of the high-tech facility. They are looking onto a large metallic contraption made of wires, moving plates, valves, blinking lights and other assorted bits and pieces. The entire thing looks like a giant robotic heart that has grown like a cancer and taken over the building. In its midst is Helena, spread angled and bound by her hands and feet, writhing in agony as periodic flashes of electricity shudder through the entire ensemble.

 

"Irene, we nee _someone_ for the machine, you know as well as I what will happen if there is no one to power the Labyrinth."

 

Irene's jaw tightens and her frown deepens into a scowl.

 

"That is the only reason why you brought that poor woman to Knossos, that and no other. This make _us_ he wicked ones and I for one, will not stand for it."

 

"Well, then take it up with Abbot. You and I both know that he's the one you need to convince."

 

"Abbot," Irene Frederick sighs. "It always comes back to Abbot doesn't it, when did the Regents become a monarchy?" she laments out loud to no one in particular.

 

Below them, I hair-curling scream is heard as a particularly violent current wrecks through the machine and the woman encapsulated in it.

 

"She's strong. She'll last a long time, maybe even longer than anyone else."

 

"For her sake, I hope not…"

 

Gans sighs and rubs his forehead.

 

"Look, Archer said that her mind is, quote: 'magnificent', and highly compatible with the machine." They both pause once more take a look at the convoluted assortment of shiny bits and pieces and the woman trapped within. "Face it Mrs. Frederic, there's no way Abbot will let her go. Innocent or not, keeping Asterion locked away is more important than her, or me, or you, or even Abbot himself. Go back to the Warehouse Irene, and put this and Helena Wells out of your mind."

 

* * *

 

It is December 7, 1899 and Charles Wells has not seen his sister in two months.

 

"I don't care Mr. Meriwether; I want to see my sister."

 

Charles' usual quiet demeanor is all but gone and Edmund Meriwether does not quite know how to handle the man's uncharacteristic agitation. Of course, they have all met Helena's brother outside of work; the two are practically attached at the hip. However, relative or not, he does not have clearance to enter the Warehouse.

 

"Mr. Wells, you know that Warehouse 12 is not available to civilians. And while I suspect that you are aware of more than is strictly allowed to the general populace, I simply cannot let you in."

 

They are standing in front of an unmarked door in a forgotten part of the maze that is London's underground system.

 

"You are not even supposed to know of this location. Please Mr. Wells, kindly turn around and leave."

 

"I was afraid you would say that Mr. Meriwether, and I do sincerely apologies."

 

"Wha-"

 

Edmund Meriwether does not get the chance to finish his question as an odd current spicks through his body; he stiffens and collapses like a block of lead.

 

"Heavens Helena, why would you even need to invent such a terrible device?" Charles asks the air around him as he tucks one of Helena's little contraptions back into his pocket. He takes off his overcoat and bundles it under Mr. Meriwether's head.

 

"Don't worry good sir; the effects will wear off by tomorrow with nothing for you to remember," he tells the unconscious man while patting his chest lightly. Charles rises, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

 

"Here goes nothing."

 

* * *

 

Pete and Claudia had just gotten back to Leena's with a 64-box set of Rosa's assorted double glazed cookies, a white-board, many differently colored white-board markers, and a projector for Claudia's laptop. They are almost done setting up their little think-tank operation when Leena strides into the room with two cups of coffee, one cup of hot coco and a stiff glass of whiskey.

 

"Thanks Leena," Claudia says as she takes her cup of Joe from the tray. Leena grabs a coffee for herself as well.

 

"No problem, may we join you guys?"

 

"Sure," Pete answers as he grabs the hot coco and takes a sip. "Who's mystery scotch-drinking participant number 4?"

 

"I am."

 

Both Claudia and Pete give a little jump and turn around at Mrs. Frederic's dry announcement.

 

"Creepy," Claudia mumbles to Pete under her breath.

 

"Sooooo creepy," Pete mumbles back.

 

They both stand a little bit in awe after witnessing Mrs. Frederic take the whiskey from Leena's tray and down it in one go.

 

"Creepy and inspirational," Claudia mumbles.

 

"Hmm, like Vincent Price," comes Pete's mumbled agreement.

 

"Quite children," Mrs. Frederick says. "Let's start: we are here today to think up a plan to free a fellow agent from Knossos."

 

Leena gasps, "oh no, not Knossos!"

 

"Hey, this is _our_ meeting," Pete says indignantly.

 

"What's Knossos?" asks Claudia. "And yeah, this is our meeting, if you want the projector I think there's another one in the basement, it's kinda' old but I'm sure I can make it work."

 

"But you can't have our white board," Pete adds.

 

Mrs. Frederic gives him an unimpressed stare.

 

"Okay, you can borrow it," Pete relents after an uncomfortable amount of staring time has passed.

 

Mrs. Frederic continues staring at him without so much as a twitch.

 

"Okay, we can share the markers too, but not the magenta one, the magenta one is really rare."

 

"Agent Latimer,"

 

"Yes?"

 

"Shut up."

 

"Okay."

 

Mrs. Frederic clears her throat. "As I was saying, it has recently come to my attention that agent Wells has been encapsulated inside the Knossos facility. I was informed that this decision was made in higher circles than the ones I am privy to and is irrefutable. I was also informed that I should put agent Wells out of my mind and carry on with the regular running of the Warehouse. However, the regular running of the warehouse _is_ affected by this unfortunate decision, and so I feel justified in taking actions to rectify the situation."

 

There is a long moment of silence as all the participants in the room stare at Mrs. Frederic in varying levels of dumfoundness.

 

"So like, can you say that again only with more details and…slower," Pete finally pips up while making a circular rewind gesture with his two forefingers.

 

"Very well, are you at all familiar with the legend of the Minotaur, agent Latimer?"

 

* * *

 

Another day is almost finished for special agent Myka Barring.

 

From downstairs, she can hear Pete and Claudia tinkering with some inane shenanigan or other. She thinks she can hear Leena and what sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Frederic as well. That prompts her awareness to peek its metaphorical head from beneath the sludge of apathy and monotony that has been her thoughts and feelings for the last several months _It doesn't matter though_ , she thinks, _if it's important at all they will notified you of what needs be done and you will do it_.

 

Her mind has been on autopilot for so long.

 

I few years back the Secret Service sent her for close-quarters training at Quantico. One of the exercises constituted her group freeing a "hostage" from a building that had been taken over by "terrorists" without the plastic dummy being harmed. During the last stretch of the simulation one of her teammates got overly excited and threw his stun grenade prematurely, the projectile landed 6 feet away from her and detonated.

 

For twelve minutes, she lay on the floor, immobile and drooling. It was an odd sensation, she wasn't stunned the way she thought she would be. Her eyes were open and her mind was working, but she had no control over her body and her senses were receiving information with a noticeable delay and fogginess, and while her thoughts were definitely clear and coherent, they too seemed to run away from her in a free-form stream-of-consciousness kind of way. She remembers being ineffably grateful for going to the bathroom before the drill started. She remembers being exorbitantly fascinated with the grout framing the tiles of the room she was lying in. She remembers finding the muffled voices and hysteric mannerisms of her teammates to be quite annoying and unnecessary. She remembers feeling…oddly removed.

 

In many ways, she's been feeling that weird brand of shock for the last year.

 

 _Ever since Helena left you_.

 

 _She didn't leave_ me _, and anyways that is_ not _important; Helena is/was? (Don't think that way) a grown woman capable of making her own decisions and her decision_ not _to include anybody/me (Don't think that way) in her inner turmoil does not reflect on anyone but Helena herself_.

 

 _So what if you are unbearably hurt by the realization of how out of the loop you were in regards to Helena's inner machinations, so what if that revelation puts every other interaction you had with Helena in doubt. You did everything you could, you were a good agent and a good friend, your ear and your shoulder were readily available for Helena at all times_ She _is the one that had missed out on the opportunity to get closer to_ you _. None of this is your fault. You did everything right._

 

 _Yeah, and look where that has gotten me_.

 

Myka sighs and spits the last of the toothpaste from her mouth; she looks up into the bathroom mirror to see a gaunt and unhappy person reflected back at her. Her eyes are watery and mirthless; her skin is pale and stretched over the bones and tendons of her face. She has been eating properly, at least enough to stay fit for the missions, but her body seems to have lost its weight and luster regardless. She tries to smile, not a true smile really, just an exercise to see if she can still move the muscles in an approximation of the expression. She fails.

 

Myka wipes her mouth, gets out of the bathroom, moves to her bed and settles in stiffly. She stares at the ceiling.

 

She hasn't been sleeping properly either, her eyes stray to the container of Melatonin on the little night stand next to the bed, then they wander downwards to the drawer bellow the table's surface. She knows what is inside and she knows that there will be no positive ramifications from pulling out the object, but her traitorous hands are already rummaging through the now open drawer to close around the cold rectangular metal of Helena's locket. Her lower lip trembles.

 

This isn't fair. Why should _she_ be so affected by Helena's departure? She doesn't even know if Helena felt the same…connection to her _You are so stupid Myka, how do you always get yourself into these situations_.

 

She pulls the locket close to her heart. After a while she lifts the ornament up to the moonlight streaming through her window. She has added Helena's picture to the other side of the locket, opposite the black and white of Christina.

 

"Tomorrow I'm resigning my work at the warehouse and becoming a nun; nuns never get into these ridicules messes." She snorts. "Well, except maybe Heloise d'Argenteuil–at least according to those correspondents." _ah,_ that _was weird artifact to extract_.

 

She flings the bed covers from her body and sits up.

 

"Pete, I can't sleep again," she tells her ferret. "Should I go down and join the others? I hate how they all seem to walk on eggshells around me, it's like they all except me to snap. Well I'm not, I'm no _Helena_ ," She says bitterly.

 

Pete's beady little eyes gaze at her unblinkingly.

 

"You're no help at all."

 

She rises and makes her way downstairs in her pajamas. As she gets closer, she can definitely hear Mrs. Frederic talking to the others.

 

* * *

 

"We are all adults here," Mrs. Frederic opens her speech. "So I expect you all to take the following information with the appropriate gravity it deserves."

 

She receives a bevy of vigorous if silent nods from her audience. Claudia, Pete and Leena are sitting bunched up together on the living room couch, she is standing before them and has their full and undivided attention. Mrs. Frederic needs no projectors to make her presentations – her Points are Powerful enough on their own, thank you very much. She nods to herself and continues.

 

"According to ancient Greek lore, Pasiphaë was the wife of Minos, king of Crete. She was cursed by the gods to fall madly in love with a white bull as punishment for Minos keeping the bull for himself instead of sacrificing it to the god Poseidon. Queen Pasiphaë had the king's master tinkersmith–a genus by the name of Daedalus–construct a hollow wooden cow into which she lowered herself. The contraption was left in the bull's pasture and Pasiphaë got to…consummate her love for the beast. Thus Asterion was born, also known as 'the bull of Minos', or The Minotaur.

The child, half human-half bull, turned out to be a monster with a taste for human flesh despite his bovine ancestry. Once again, Daedalus was called upon to use his talent, this time by King Minos who requested that he devise an unsolvable maze. Daedalus succeeded, and King Minos was able to lock and hide the Minotaur and the shame that it brought to the royal family."

 

"Icarus!" Pete shouts suddenly.

 

"Pete shut-up, you're breaking Mrs. Frederic's story-groove, she was just getting to the good part – I could tell," Claudia whines sideways.

 

"No, no, I know this! I knew I knew that name!"

 

"That sounded stupid. I dare you to say the word 'know' or one of its tenses one more time."

 

"Whatever, mein herr grammar-commandar," Pete answers in an overly fake German accent.

 

"Ha, ha, you're so funny," Claudia deadpans.

 

"I try."

 

"Anyways, I'm pretty sure Mrs. Frederic didn't say the name Icarus," Claudia points out.

 

"I'm standing right here," Mrs. Frederic says, but Pete and Claudia ignore her as they carry on with their little tirade.

 

"No, no, Daedalus – he was Icarus' father. He built that wing-y artifact thing that Myka and I used to get out of Warehouse 2. See, I had a nagging feeling that this was all familiar; I just got hung up on the whole bestiality part. Man, did I never think that Mrs. Frederic would ever tell me a story about bestiality, this job has just crossed the PG-13 mark."

 

"I know, right?" Claudia snorts. "I guess they really _do_ think you're an adult, Pete."

 

"I'm standing. Right. Here." Mrs. Frederic says with the full force of her exasperation.

 

Pete and Claudia stop and turn their heads in union back to Mrs. Frederic.

 

"Go ahead Mrs. F, we're all ears," Claudia assures the aggravated woman.

 

"Eww," Pete pips in. "Do you remember that scene in 'Robin-hood: men in tights' were Robin-hood is all: 'gentlemen, lend me your ears!' and then all the merry men throw their ears at him."

 

"Oh god yeah! Eww! And then he's all-"

 

Claudia straightens in her seat and puts her fisted hands on her hips,

 

"-That was disgusting," she tusks in her best Cary Elwes imitation.

 

Pete and Claudia proceed to snicker and guffaw as Mrs. Frederic massages her temple with two fingers.

 

"Remind me to give Artie a raise," she informs a smiling Leena.

 

"You might want to stick to a projector next time Mrs. Frederic; shiny pictures tend to capture their attention more easily."

 

Mrs. Frederic's eyebrow twitches but she adds no further comment. Leena hides her widening smile with another sip of her coffee.

 

Suddenly, Pete and Claudia's sniggering stops. They both crane their necks and lean sideways to look at something behind Mrs. Frederic, ending almost on top of Leena. Mrs. Frederic turns around to see Myka sitting at the middle-most part of the staircase with her legs tucked to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, looking very much like a lost child in her oversized pajamas.

 

"Agent Barring, please join us," Irene calls to her gently.

 

Myka pads soundlessly to them as Pete and Claudia squeeze to the side to make room for Myka to wedge herself. The minute she is situated, Pete snakes his arm around her shoulder to rub her bicep.

 

"You got here just in time," he whispers to her. "Claudia says we're getting to the good part."

 

Myka nods wordlessly, looking for all intents and purposes like she's about to cry. Pete keeps his hand around her shoulder and squeezes her a little bit.

 

"As I was saying," Irene continues once the atmosphere has quieted down. "Asterion grew up to be a man-eating beast, every nine years the city of Athens was required to send fourteen virginal youths: seven boys and seven girls, to Crete to be sacrificed to the Minotaur.

Theseus–prodigal son of Aegeus, king of Athens–was finally able to slay the beast when he decided to swap with one of the sacrificial youths. Sadly, since this _is_ a Greek tale, tragedy tends to crop up its seemingly inevitable head.  
  
While on his mission to slay the Minotaur, Theseus was aided by Ariadne who was a princess of Crete and Asterion's half-sister. Ariadne fell madly in love with Theseus at first sight; she was the one who slipped him a sword and the yarn he used to figure out Daedalus' maze. In return for her help, Theseus promised to take her back with him to Athens to be his wife.

Theseus indeed took Ariadne with him when he and the rest of the Athenians were fleeing the Crete forces on Theseus' boat, but for some unknown reason he left her at the isle of Naxos. On its shores, with Theseus' ship sailing away, she cursed the man she loved and the gods listened. You see, before he embarked on his mission, Theseus promised his father that if he were to be successful in his mission, he would hang white sails on his boat so that the people of Athens could see from afar that he was victorious. On the other hand, if he were to fail, his men were to hang black sheets.

Drunk on his victory, Theseus forgot his promised to his father and wrapped the Minotaur's severed head in the white sheets that he was supposed to hang up. So when the ship got close to the harbors of Athens, King Aegeus–seeing the black omen–thought that his beloved son had perished and threw himself off the cliffs into the sea that is named after him too this very day.

The Greek story ends here, leaving out a few interesting bits. The one concerning us the most is this one: what happened to the Minotaur's head?"

 

"I'm guessing you're going to tell us that now," Pete says.

 

"I am not," Irene replies. Claudia sniggers. Pete smacks her shoulder.

 

"Nobody knows what happened to Asterion's original head," Irene continues. "The bloody sheet that was wrapped around it however-"

 

"Wait _original_ head?"

 

"Please Agent Latimer, I'm getting to that."

 

This time it is Claudia that smacks Pete, they are both quieted down by an annoyed glare from Leena.

 

"As I was saying, fast forward some centuries and we get to the Second World War era which constitutes some of the most intense activity that Warehouse agents ever saw; it was a race to get as many harmful artifacts before the Nazis could harness them into weapons. Sadly one of the artifacts that we failed to retrieve was the bloody sheet that wrapper the Minotaur's head. We believe that the sheet got into the hands of the perverse Dr. Josef Rudolf Mengele, who used an archaic and warped type of genetic engineering to either reconstruct or clone Asterion. He was successful. Well, somewhat."

 

"Let me guess, the new Minotaur was too strong for them to handle," Pete hazards.

 

"This time you would be right Agent Latimer, the new Asterion was as strong and blood-thirsty as the first, but this time Dr. Mengele's tinkering left Asterion's genetic makeup unstable and highly contagious. The mangled bodies of the Nazi soldiers that the Minotaur half-consumed in the rampage that ensued after he escaped were infected by his spittle; the corpses were warped into smaller, more mindless versions of Asterion and reanimated for a short period of time."

 

"How short?" Leena asks quietly.

 

"About three days – until a cadaver's remaining nourishment runs out."

 

"Unless it consumes something else," Pete adds.

 

"Unless it consumes something else," Mrs. Frederic agrees.

 

They all take a minute to take it all in.

 

"Soo…basically what you're saying is that the Allied Forces were on the verge of a Nazi-Zombie-Mini-Minotaur apocalypse," Claudia concludes.

 

"Yes."

 

Another pause passes.

 

"That's so cool!" Pete and Claudia say in union.

 

"Jinx."

 

"Dammit."

 

* * *

 

Charles Wells has been dejectedly staring at the golden capsule that contains his sister's body for over an hour.

 

"I'm so sorry Charles, but Helena herself requested the process."

 

Charles jumps at the unexpected voice. He turns around to see a distinguished looking Native-American woman gazing sadly at him.

 

"Mrs. Nanaymo, I didn't hear you approaching."

 

"That happens."

 

"What is this devilish device? I cannot manage to get Helena out of it."

 

"This is a Bronzer," Mrs. Nanymo gestures towards the section of the Warehouse that houses the weird contraption.

 

"What does it do?"

 

"Helena has been going through…a very rough period of time as you may know, so rough in fact that she has requested to move to a new one."

 

"I don't understand," Charles says honestly, his voice sounding very young and very lost.

 

"I know, but all will be made clear. Please follow me."

 

* * *

 

"This is madness!" Artie exclaims.

 

"No! This is Sparta!" Pete shouts and kicks the air in front of him.

 

Pete receives a round of stare from the occupants of Artie's office.

 

"Sorry."

 

Claudia sends him a disapproving look and he answers with a silent 'what?'  
  
Myka punches his shoulder.

 

"Artie this is not a matter of choice, I am your direct superior," Mrs. Frederic informs Artie. "Besides which, I will shoulder all consequence for the actions that you and your agents are about to partake in."

 

"Oh really? And when the entire northern American continent is run over by undead flash-eating Minotaurs because we've freed the mind-source of the labyrinth, will you shoulder the consequences then as well?" Artie just about blows a gasket.

 

"What labyrinth?" asks Myka.

 

"What's a mind-source?" asks Claudia.

 

"Mom, Dad, I think we're still missing some crucial details here," Pete adds.

 

"You're up to date with the story of the Minotaur, right?" Artie asks Pete curtly.

 

"Yup."

 

"Well obviously not enough," he grumps. "For your information, the new Minotaur is essentially immortal. Asterion's unstable genetics means that not only is he highly contagious, he himself is basically undead. Every time we kill him, his body pulls itself together; we don't understand where it gets the energy or the raw material that is needed to pull that off, but it does. We've tried everything!"

 

"Hmm, so a mutant healing factor as well," Claudia muses as she taps her chin with her forefinger.

 

"Yeah, we need to keep that berk away from Adamantium," Pete adds.

 

Artie gives Pete a nasty look. Mrs. Frederic puts a calming hand on his shoulder and looks at Pete, "We can't kill him, so in a way we built a new Labyrinth," she explains.

 

"No shit?" Claudia exclaims. "I mean it makes sense I guess, worked the first time around, right?"

 

"What do you mean 'in a way'?" Myka asks softly. She has been even more withdrawn since Mrs. Frederic's initial announcement; Pete has been keeping a very close eye on her.

 

"We can't let Asterion eat," Artie explains. "Most things he comes in contact with become contaminated. Killing him doesn't work, and neither do sleeping drugs, but most alarming is that aside from being inhumanly strong – the Minotaur is also frightfully crafty. Hitherto he has managed to crack every physical lock, and escape every corporeal trap that we've set before him; so far we've managed to just _barely_ contain him every time he has escaped."

 

"After the last close call, the Regents–in a controversial move–commissioned a new Labyrinth for the Minotaur, a Labyrinth for the mind," Mrs. Frederic says with distaste.

 

"Irene, you know it was the only way," Artie implores. "Abbot's suggestion has been the only one to pass the test of reality."

 

"There's always another way Artie, and the maneuvering Abbot employed to twist everyone's arm into going along with the Knossos project…it's not the way a Regent ought to handle himself."

 

"There was no _time_ , Asterion kept getting better at escaping and-"

 

"A Labyrinth for the mind," Pete cuts Artie off, his voice and expression conveying much doubtfulness.

 

"What like the Matrix? Some sort of virtual device, right?" Claudia asks.

 

"Yes," Mrs. Frederic answers. "In fact exactly so, Asterion's mind is completely engaged in a program that ensnares his consciousness and senses, this way his body is fully subdued."

 

"That's…that's amazing actually," Claudia looks seriously impressed. "I mean, theoretically the idea of a virtual world has been around forever-"

 

"And by forever she means 1982," Pete cuts in.

 

Claudia gives him a dirty look.

 

"Don't worry my little Padwan," Pete says as he condescendingly pats the top of Claudia's head. "TRON is old enough for you to – understandably – perceive it as forever ago."

 

"Whatever Pete _your_ TRON is ancient _and_ it doesn't have Olivia Wild in it. But anyways, to actually create a Virtual World to the point where a mind is consistently fooled would require a lot of…"

 

"Distraction, a lot of distraction," Artie injects before Claudia can finish her sentence. "The reason the Labyrinth at the Knossos facility is so effective is because it is constantly shifting and changing, a person that is trapped inside of it doesn't have the time to contemplate the impossibility of his or her situation because they're constantly under the stress of keeping up with their surroundings."

 

Claudia gives out an impressed whistle, "wow, that's one fancy programming."

 

"Only it's not, is it?" Myka asks grimly. "There's not a program in the world that could do that – be that creative and complex, at least not in real time. For that you'd need-"

 

"A human mind, a mind-source," Pete finishes.

 

"Yes," Artie confirms.

 

* * *

 

Charles Wells looks at the envelope in his hands and then at Mrs. Nanaimo who is calmly sitting on a couch across from him and drinking tea.

 

' _To the eyes of Charles Wells and Charles Wells only!_ ' is scrawled in Helena's staccato cursive over the majority of the packet.

 

"Have you read what's in it?" he asks his quiet companion.

 

"Of course not Charles, it is for your eyes and your eyes only," Mrs. Nanaimo answers peacefully.

 

Her presence is so otherworldly; the shear palatability of it should make him uncomfortable. Instead, Charles feels calmed, almost meditative. He looks at the envelope and rips the top of it with his pinky finger.

 

_My most darling Charles,_

 

The letter begins.

 

 _I know you will never be able to forgive me for abandoning you so; and for that I am profoundly, exceedingly, unimaginably sorry._  
  
The only excuse I have is that Christina's murder has sucked what little energy I have left: energy to be happy, energy to be angry, energy to live at all – and in this case – energy to act like an adult.

 

_I am running away Charles, I am fully aware of the immaturity of such a reaction, but I cannot seem to find the power to deal with…anything, I simply cannot.  
I am so tired Charles, so bloody tired._

 

 _There is a gaping, festering hole in my chest, left there by Christina's departure; and I do not think this world will ever have anything quiet as wonderful as she that could fill it up._  
  
I know this might hurt you, I know you might think that you could be the one to save me, to heal my wound, but you have your own life to live and your own love to nourish.  
  
I cannot ask you to take care of the gash in my soul, it is too big, it would consume us both.

 

 _My poor brother, I should have at least told you of my plans face to face instead of being such self-centered coward, but I honestly think that such a confrontation would have made me collapse and die from sheer emotional exhaustion. In a twisted sort of way you should be grateful for my childish behavior, it must mean that some inkling of self-preservation remains still within the grey wasteland that is my soul._  
  
And yes, I do realize how egotistical and melodramatic that last line sounded, but as I have previously stated – I come to you with no pretense to the contrary. I can only pray and hope that with time, your love for me will allow you a sense of understanding if not clemency.

 

 _Thus, I depart. My flight will not be 'far', but rather 'long'. It is a journey of no return._  
  
I am sure Mrs. Nanaimo has by now explained to you the machinations of the Bronzer.

 

 _However, fear not sweet Charles, for I am not a complete monster._  
  
On the second page of this letter, I leave to you a map to the location of a secret workshop of mine. There I have left my 2nd generation temporal consciousness transfer engine. The warehouse has only my prototype, they do not know of the second "time machine". It is an improved and safer version, much more controllable – I have made sure that it is in perfect condition before I set forth on my trip.  
  
  
  
Therefore, I am abandoning you Charles – but not completely. We will _meet again one day._  
  
I hope that by then I will have found…I do not know…a trick perhaps, to existing with my wound. Maybe even a balm for the crack that it has created in my soul.  
  
One can only hope.

 

 _Goodbye then, my darling brother, may we both look_  
  
to the future.

 

 _Your sister,_  
  
Helena.

 

Charles looks up at Mrs. Nanaimo after furtively peeking at the last page. There is indeed a map there.

 

"I assume everything is in order?" she asks him in her slow, calm voice.

 

"I must say, you are surprisingly unaffected by all this, Mrs. Nanaimo."

 

"Oh?"

 

"Yes, by Helena' _preposterous_ request, by my appearance here at the Warehouse, even by my reaction right now to the letter. Are you sure you haven't read it yet?"

 

"Positive."

 

Charles squints at her contemplatively. Mrs. Nanaimo takes another sip from her tea.

 

"Hmm, fair enough. A different question then: do you _know_ what's written in this letter?"

 

Mrs. Nanaimo smiles enigmatically.

 

"Maybe."

 

"Have I…" Charles licks his suddenly dry lips. "Have I told you already what's inside the letter?" he asks while leaning forward tensely on his seat.

 

"No."

 

Charles leans back disappointedly, but then another thought occurs to him.

 

"Somebody else then."

 

"Yes," Mrs. Nanaimo says with a note of approval in her voice.

 

"Who?"

 

"A Mrs. Irene Frederic. I believe you will be meeting with her very shortly. You two have much to discuss."

 

Charles absentmindedly bites his lower lip while thinking over this new information. After a minute, he rises from his chair and extends his hand towards Mrs. Nanaimo.

 

"Well then, off I go I guess."

 

"Quite right," Mrs. Nanaimo agrees with a smile is she slowly pushes her motherly frame out of the couch. "Please come this way," she grabs Charles' offered hand and leads him towards the door. "The first trip will be in _our_ machine."

 

"Your machi- wait, first trip? Wait! Right now?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Ah, all right," Charles scratches the back of his head. "Well uh, then, please do give my apologies to Mr. Meriwether."

 

"Don't worry about it, and Mr. Wells?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"Good luck."

 

* * *

 

"Does it hurt?" Myka asks Mrs. Frederic.

 

"Does what hurt?"

 

"Being used as a mind-source. You seemed very opposed to the idea – on an ethical level even – and I think you're kind of a pragmatic person, so for you to think of something necessary as still being wrong…it's bad isn't it?"

 

"Yes," Irene answers gravely. "From what I understand, the device at Knossos uses the mind-sources' memories and nightmares as fodder to update the virtual Labyrinth, as well as actually using his or her physical brain to process these memories and nightmares."

 

"So the person acts as both hardware and software," Claudia muses. "Helena's mind is being utilized as a kind of super-class from which the program can instantiate child-objects for the Labyrinth, and her physical brain is being used as a CPU and GPU. Yup, sounds painful. I'm assuming that on top of all this it's being done against her will."

 

Mrs. Frederic does not answer, but by the look on her face the answer is obvious.

 

"I can't believe this Artie! You're okay with this? This is literally mind rape!" Pete exclaims as he gets up from his chair and throws up his hands.

 

"It is necessary for the sake of humanity!" Artie defends. "Up until now, we've only used condemned felons to power the Labyrinth: Rapists, Murderers, people that have been sentenced by their own governments to death – Instead we take them to the Knossos facility to serve a period of time as a mind-source. When the term is done, they are let-go instead of serving their original sentence – which is death! Sure, they probably come out of it needing extensive psychological treatment, but it's still better than the alternative!"

 

"Only they never actually survive the term," Mrs. Frederic's flat announcements cuts through Artie's tirade like a knife.

 

"What…?" Artie looks shocked.

 

"Yeah, I was just wondering about that," Claudia says with an expression of graveness far beyond her years, she nervously holds the collar of her shirt over her chin and lower lip and looks sideways at Pete, who gives her a reassuring look as if to tell her that she can go on. Claudia looks back at the group.

 

"I mean, if it was just her memories and dreams being used as blueprints to build the maze then no problem – traumatic, but no problem; but they're using her brain to think up the floor plans and the _build them too_. That suggests a physical toll, a really heavy one too."

 

"No… that can't be," Artie looks visibly shaken. "Abbot said that-"

 

"Abbot has been lying. About many things."

 

"But-"

 

"No buts, Artie."

 

Artie collapses heavily on the couch behind him. He looks dazed.

 

Silence and time stretch through the room in an uncomfortable manner while every member of the small group absorbs the full implications of the Labyrinth at Knossos.

 

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," Pete says softly as he shakes his head. "Governments still have to offer up human sacrifices to the Minotaur in order to subdue him."

 

"Yeah, But who will be our Theseus?" Claudia asks bitterly.

 

"I will."

 

They all look somewhat surprised at Myka, not because of the words that she had uttered but because of the absolute air of determination that they were spoken in. The tone is enough to snap the group back from the atmosphere of defeat that had draped itself over the room mere minutes ago – it is as if Myka's sudden awakening from her year-long stupor had catapulted her fellow-conspirators' focus levels well past 'attentive' and straight to 'super-hero-hyper-mode'. The change is instantaneous.

 

Claudia claps her hands together, "I have an idea."

 

"I have more information," Mrs. Frederic adds.

 

"I'll go get us the equipment we'll need," Artie stands up from the couch, waving a pointed finger in the air.

 

"I'll help you find it," Leena scuttles after him.

 

"I…still have some cookies left. I think."

 

Myka looks at Pete with a smile.

 

"Thanks partner, a cookie is just what I need."

 

"Anytime."


	3. Part 2

It is April 15, 2011 and everything is wrong. It had been wrong for almost a year now, Mrs. Frederic thinks.

  


She opens the case of her old Czapek & Cie and takes a peek. 05:08 the golden hands of her watch tell her.

  


She has just returned from the Knossos facility with her mind reeling with newly discovered facts and old guilts. She takes a walk through the corridors of the warehouse to center herself, her hands lightly grazing the stacks of shelves as she passes them by. She lifts her eyes and spots the silhouette of agent Lattimer and Ms. Donovan through the window of Artie's raised office as they leave the building for the day. After their departure, the warehouse gives a shudder.

  


"I know old friend," she says as she pats the massive concrete base of one of the columns that support the warehouse's rafters.

  


To say that a warehouse is a living thing would be a mistake, it is no more alive than a refrigerator is. However, that does not exclude a warehouse from possessing sentience or even a soul, it's just that the building's intellect does not resemble in any way, shape, or form that of a person, or a mammal, or even undead creatures or computers – since the last two are derived from a human psych as well.

  


Nevertheless, she and all the Warehouse-Keepers before her had been endowed with the ability to directly communicate with Warehouses. This is why – even though a Warehouse is no _supposed_ to value, react, or comprehend things the same way a human mind does – Mrs. Frederic has a sneaking suspicion that the current set of agents' goofy attitudes had started to rub off on the old building. Between them, Myka, Pete, and Claudia produce simply too much…fun for even a rickety old warehouse not to care.

  


Indeed, since the arrival of the present crew, Mrs. Frederic has sensed a definite increase in what she can only describe as the Warehouse's playfulness as well as patience levels. That is why the sudden shift in atmosphere caused by agent Wells' removal – and the effect it had on the rest of the gang – was acuity felt by the Warehouse. The goofiness had all but disappeared, Artifacts were being brought in an efficient and professional manner, Pete and Myka were quiet and cordial with each other, and Claudia had stopped playing with the Artifacts. _The Job_ as being done.  
  
Warehouse 13 was feeling left out.

  


It shouldn't have mattered – Warehouses are not human. But there you have it.

  


Mrs. Frederic never did report the shift she sensed, not when the Warehouse became more…happy, and not when it became more sad. At the time, she told herself that it was only a feeling on her part, that she should not report anything without more concrete evidence. Though truthfully, it was mostly because by then Abbot was consolidating political power above and beyond what a Regent should possess. Mrs. Frederic had become very careful about what information she hands out and to whom.

  


"A sad state of affairs," she mumbles.

  


Suddenly the Warehouse sends her an excited vibe and tells her to turn left on the next corridor. She spots Artie strolling down an aisle, looking for all intents and purposes like he's lost.

  


"Are you alright?"

  


"Oh, pardon me madam, I seem to be lost. Would you be so kind as to direct me to a Helena G. Wells?" Artie says with a thick British accent.

  


Mrs. Frederic raises both her eyebrows _Should I be worried?_ he asks the warehouse.

  


_NO. ALL IS AS IT SHOULD BE._

  


_Very well_ , she turns her attention to the man in front of her.

  


"I'm assuming you are not Artie?"

  


"Uh…Arty, no, not so much – I'm more of a writer, but my sister is a fantastic drafts-lady, highly artistic if I do say so myself. Would you be so kind as to help me locate her? Her name is Helena and I was led to believe that she might…um… _be_ here."

  


"Ah, then you must be Charles, nice to meet you. I'm guessing that you used your sister's 'Time Machine' to get here?"

  


"Yes, you are quite right. A most peculiar experience," Charles fidgets and clasps his hands behind his back while craning his chin a bit forward in a very Helena-like manner.

  


Despite everything, Mrs. Frederic cannot help but grin at the gesture. "Well then, please fallow me, we have much to discus."

  


The two start climbing the metal steps leading up to the main office.  
  
  
  
"By the way, 'Artie' is the name of the man that usually inhabits your current body."

  


"Oh, what do you mea-"

  


Charles looks down at his body.

  


"Good Lord!"

  


* * *

  


"How goes the project."

  


The voice is deep and confidant, intimidating. Gans can't decide if the speaker sounds more like Christopher Lee or Peter O'Toole, either way it has always been successful at making him feel very small.

  


"Fine, nothing new to tell."

  


"Is that so?" Abbot turns around from the large bay windows that overlook the central computer hub.

  


He is a tall man with long spidery limbs, a penchant for black clothes, and a gaunt looking face complete with sunken eye sockets and a bald head – the entire ensemble ending in a somewhat skeletal look. Gans is surprised that Abbot has not grown a goatee yet so he could twirl it ominously.

  


"Because I distinctly remember seeing you strolling around the facility with Mrs. Irene Frederic," Abbot continues. "I wasn't aware she was invited, Gans. I don't like people inviting guests to _my_ facility without consulting with me in advance, Gans – I don't like it at all."

  


Gans gulps and subconsciously backs away as Abbot leaves his perch by the window and advances on him.

  


"I…I…didn't realize that…Abbot…Irene, she's a Warehouse-speaker, why wouldn't she be allowed to…since when do the Regents hinder the movement of Warehouse-speakers…"

  


Abbot is very close to Gans, his entire form hunching over the smaller man like some dark predatory bird that's about to rip into a terrified rabbit; but suddenly Abbot stops, his mien retracting into his physical body as if it was just a bad dream. Gans shakes his head at the suddenness of it all.

  


"Of course Gans," Abbot pats the dazed man on the shoulder, his other hand tucked behind his back in a polite manner. "I was not implying that Mrs. Frederic had no right to enter the facility, I was just _suggesting_ that next time you call me so I can…answer her questions personally."

  


"Of course Abbot, that makes perfect sense Abbot, I'm sorry I didn't call you when she arrived – It won't happen again."

  


"Of course Gans. I have the utmost confidence that such mishaps will not repeat themselves."

  


Gans shakes his head in a hasty 'yes' and turns to leave, he's almost to the room's automatic sliding door when Abbot's voice stops him one last time,

  


"And Gans, just so we're clear – if you see Irene Frederic or any of her agents around here ever again, you come straight to me."

  


* * *

  


'09:31'  
  
Mrs. Frederic tucks her pocket watch back into her shirt.

  


"So here's the deal-" Claudia starts.

  


Artie and Leena had just left the room in search of equipment that might be useful for their Great Heist.

  


"I think the solution to this problem might be much simpler than anybody realizes," Claudia continues.

  


"How much simpler?" Mrs. Frederic asks.

  


"Um, on a scale of one to two: one."

  


"This I got to hear," Pete says as he and Myka hunker down closer to listen to the explanation.

  


"Well, see, one of the things that bombs a program is what's called an "un-exitable infinite loop" – a protocol that repeats itself forever, usually it happens because of faulty logic of the circular variety."

  


"Faulty circular logic?" Pete asks. "Wait, don't explain that, it probably involves math and I won't get it anyways."

  


"No, no, circular logic doesn't only happen in math," Myka says. "For instance: God is the ultimate power, why? Because the bible says so, and the bible is always right, why? Because God wrote it. That was, in a nutshell, the mistake René Descartes made when he was trying to use logic to prove the existence of God."

  


"So his mistake was that the arguments lead back to each other," Pete concludes, his tone indicating that he's following along thus far.

  


"Yes," Claudia says. "On their own, each argument is correct as long as the validator is solid, but the validator is not solid, it is supported by the _other_ argument."

  


"So what happens when it's all mathy in a program?" Pete asks.

  


"The program crashes. Either the compiler is made to crash the protocol on purpose as a failsafe when it sees that more than X amount of seconds pass on the same loop, or the machine gets stuck running the loop forever and then you have to manually shut it down otherwise it heats up and explodes," Claudia explains.

  


"Really?"

  


"Yes. Well, except the exploding part – what really happens is that the computer continues looping the protocol without moving forward in the program until it runs out of memory."

  


"So how does this help us?" Mrs. Frederic asks.

  


"Well, I have a feeling that the programmers that made the code for the Knossos facility were really good. They made sure that there'll never be an infinite loop because it would short circuit the machine and Asterion would be on the loose once again. Only like Descartes, they didn't see the bigger picture; they didn't step back far enough to look at the box from the outside."

  


"All right, what did we miss?" Mrs. Frederic says.

  


"Asterion! He's Immortal! Artie said so himself, every time you guys kill him he regenerates himself – he's like, an infinite power source, the perfect opportunity to create an infinite loop _on purpose_."

  


"So you're suggesting…" Myka starts,

  


"Put the Minotaur as the mind-source for his own prison!" Claudia exclaims while waving her hands. "Unlike regular humans – his mind won't fry because it's constantly regenerating itself!" she finishes with a huge grin on her face.

  


"It can't be that simple. It just can't." Pete shakes his head.

  


"It isn't," Mrs. Frederic says. "But it's a whole lot more sustainable than anything Abbot or the others have ever come up with. Yes, yes this might actually work..."

  


"I'd need to change the program a bit, which won't be simple – I'm guessing the Knossos computer runs on a closed circuit," Claudia says. "Also, I'd like to add a cooling mechanism to the hardware just in case it does decide to blow up, I'm sure we can find an Artifact that can do that."

  


"Then there's the part of moving Asterion from wherever he is to wherever the mind-source thingy is without him going all hungry-hippo" Pete adds.

  


"Hungry-Hippo?" Myka deadpans at Pete while shaking her head.

  


"Whaaat? Hippos, Cows, they're kind of the same. Anyways, back to the point: does anyone have any bright ideas how to – peacefully – relocate a monster to his infinite doom?"

  


Mrs. Frederic stands up.

  


"I do. It just so happens that I had a very interesting conversation with a very peculiar fellow not 4 hours ago. A fellow by the name of Charles…"

  


* * *

  


It is December 8, 1899 and Charles Wells is devastated.

  


His discussion with Mrs. Frederic the previous day (or many days from now depending from which end of the timeline you're looking at) had been a terrible experience. His sister's fate was more awful than anything his imaginative mind could conjure. The only thing that was keeping him together was Mrs. Frederic's assurance that she would not allow his sister's imprisonment and torture to continue.

  


"Oh Helena…all these years. You run away so far, or rather so long, and for what?" _How futile the human heart's attempts to outrun its own demons – those sly imps who latch on to our mortal psyches, piggybacking on our shoulders with their mouths close to our ears to whisper in our dreams "Run ye' mortal, to the ends of the earth–run! For I am as much a part of you as your muses and your genius, and the more you flee the stronger I grow!_ "

  


It is raining outside – how fitting – a depressing drizzle that colors everything it touches in muted grays. Charles sips his tea as he stares unfocused out into the dreary morning through the window of his kitchenette.

  


In the beginning, right after he had arrived back at his house from his fantastical conversation at the warehouse – the other warehouse, the 13th one – he had still fantasized about saving his sister on his own. Perhaps even preventing the situation from ever occurring in the first place, after all, he did have a map to a second, more improved "time machine". Alas, his brutally honest brain and his inherent decency had found fault in all the plans he could come up with, systematically sabotaging himself from following anything through.

  


Charles sighs.

  


The bottom line is that any sort of meddling on his part could just as much make the situation worse. After all, according to Mrs. Frederic, even Helena had eventually accepted that Christina's death was unpreventable – only with his sister, such a realization and the subsequent depression that followed, lead to incredibly volatile actions. With Charles, it lead to his current state of being: sitting around in boxers and a bathrobe, unshaven and unkempt, drinking tea and woolgathering with a spell of British weather as his sole companion.

  


"Classic," he sighs.

"Oh Helena, how I wish I was there to help you."

  


_At least that Myka woman was able to talk her down from her dramatics_. That too was in Mrs. Frederic's tale, only Charles knew his sister well enough to read between the lines _She must be very important to Helena, I wonder if they are together…_

  


The sound of the house's wooden gate being opened and closed snaps Charles from his musings. He contemplates pulling on some cloths, but ultimately shrugs and goes to the entry to take a peek.

  


"Oh, oh my!" Charles opens the door in alarm. "Mr. Meriwether do come out of the rain!" Charles waves over the soaking figure. "My sincere apologies for my attire–how do you do by the way? I hope Mrs. Nanaimo explained the circumstances of our previous and most unfortunate meeting-"

  


"Uh, heeeeey…you must be Charles," the approaching man shouts is he hops the last two steps that lead up to the foyer of Charles' home. He puts out his hand for a shake.

  


"Ah, I see," Charles looks up at Mr. Meriwether's stupidly hopeful smile. As far as he knows, Mr. Meriwether never smiles. "I assume then that you are not, in fact, Edmund Meriwether?"

  


"Yeaaah-not-so-much, the name's Pete."

  


"Another Yankee. Then I am guessing that you are here on behalf of Mrs. Frederic?"

  


"That would be a yes."

  


A minute goes by as the two of them stand awkwardly at the entrance to Charles' house, Pete swinging his hands and rocking back and forth, heels to toes, while Charles eyes him wearily.

  


"Would you like to come in?"

  


"Yes please."

  


* * *

  


"Where's Pete and Claudia?" Leena asks when she and Artie come back with their hands laden with gadgets and gizmos galore.

  


"Pete is recruiting our last operative, Claudia is there to make sure that he doesn't fry the machine," Mrs. Frederic says. "What do you have for us?"

  


Before Leena can ask any more questions Artie exclaims with an "A-ha!" followed by a clang is he drops his load of Artifacts on the office table. "I'm glad you asked," he gestures towards the pile.

  


Mrs. Frederic and Myka come closer to the table as Leena puts down her consignment in a more orderly manner.

  


"I don't think we'll need _that_ much stuff," Myka says as she wearily surveys the mound of knick-knacks.

  


"You _don't_ ," Leena says while she gives Artie the evil eye. "I wanted you and Pete to come with us so I could read your auras and kind of let you and the Warehouse decide what the best match would be, but Artie here went crazy."

  


"Whhhhat? I'm sure Pete and Myka will find the perfect Artifacts for the job, but there's no harm in being a little extra prepared."

  


"Except for the weight."

  


"It's no _that_ heavy, plus I'm sure there's an artifact that can help with that too-"

  


"Artie, they don't need _more_ artifacts," Leena says.

  


"I agree with Leena," Mrs. Frederic adds. "Quality over quantity is the way to go. "

  


The three's continued bickering sounds muffled to Myka, their voices coming to her as if they were standing in another room; this is because her vision has tunneled and focused on the most beautiful twin pistols she has seen. They call to her – their silvery gleam a wink, their beautifully scrimshawed handles a beckoning. Myka is not even aware when she moves, as if in a trance, inching slowly towards the desk and the revolvers that are laid there upon it like an offering.

  


She picks up the two Colt SAA's, a.k.a "Peacekeepers", and runs her thumbs over the 19th century patterned engravings that sprawl over the base and hammer.

  


Mkya looks up when it finally dawns on here that the room had gone silent.

  


"The twin pistols of Dallas Stoudenmire," Mrs. Frederic says.

  


"They match," Leena adds with a pleased smile.

  


* * *

  


Myka, Artie, Leena, and Mrs. Frederic walk into the H.G. section of the warehouse where Helena's prototype time machine is situated. Myka has Stoudenmire's pistols strapped to her thighs in a set of crisscrossing holsters.

  


"Ah!" Artie shouts as he pulls on his hair with both hands. "Claudia, I told you to stop tinkering with the Artifacts!"

  


Claudia looks up from the time machine's main control panel, which looks to have been Frankensteined together with other obscure bits of machinery.

  


"Chill Artie, I needed to find a way to control the length of the 'time-trip' so that Pete doesn't need to stay inside good-old 'testy' here for the full 22 hours and 19 minutes."

  


"Oh, oh great, you even call this infernal contraption 'testy', this cannot be safe Claudia!" Artie wags his finger under Claudia nose. Claudia for her part just rolls her eyes at the irate man.

  


"Not _Testy_ as in _Snappish_ ," Claudia huffs for good measure, " _Testy_ as in the homophone for the acronym T.C.T.E, you know, Temporal Consciousness Transfer Engine, and anyways, my upgrades are completely safe – I am almost just about nearly sure of it."

  


Artie narrows his eyes at the teen but is prevented from saying anything further by the sudden groaning of Pete.

  


"What did I miss?" Pete asks as Claudia rushes to unstrap him from the contraption.

  


"Myka just found an Artifact that is in alignment with her aura, I think the warehouse wants her to have them," Leena says, swiping her hand in a wide arc towards the other woman's waist.

  


"Well hello there sheriff," Pete raises his eyebrows. "Nice holsters you carrying there, Myk."

  


Myka looks down and fiddles with the belt buckles. "Yeah they came with the pistols; they have a special clipsy thing that cocks the guns when I draw them out."

  


"How very Johnny Concho," Pete tells Myka, he then turns to look at Leena. "What about me? What do I get?"

  


"Well, you'll need to look over the…loot Artie has procured, I can read your aura and tell you what fits," Leena says.

  


"Right after you tell us about your visit," Mrs. Frederic interjects; her no-nonsense tone an instant foil for Pete's enthusiasm.

  


The mood immediately sobers as everyone stiffens in anticipation for what Pete has to say.

  


"It's all good, he agreed to help," Pete relates. "He knows what to do and when to do it."

  


Mrs. Frederic takes in a deep and audible breath through her nose. "Very well. Go to sleep people, the plan is set in motion and there is nothing more we can do today."

  


"This is really happening, tomorrow we strike," Myka whispers softly to herself, but everyone hears her anyways.

  


* * *

  


"Great! Myka gets a cool pair of pistols and I get The Rubber Ducky of Fate," Pete laments aloud.

  


Despite the late hour Pete, Claudia, Myka, and Leena are sitting in their pajamas around Leena's kitchen table.

  


"Not of fate, of luck," Leena corrects as she pats Pete on the back. "Jim Henson's lucky rubber ducky."

  


"Great, it even rhymes," Pete says with a pout. "Is there a dorkier Artifact out there? I don't think so."

  


"Hey it-"

  


"Don't say it Leena."

  


"-fits."

  


Claudia snatches the plastic animal from Pete's hand and gives it a squeeze. The iconic high-pitched sound squeaks out.

  


"It's kind'a warped isn't it?" she says.

  


"Hey!" Pete grabs the ducky back and holds it to his chest. "Don't make fun of my Artifact, only I'm allowed to do that."

  


"Not a lot of people remember this," Leena explains. "But the original rubber ducky – the one you're holding Pete – has a longer neck and kind of spookier eyes than the more prevalent design they use today. The sesame-street people originally wanted to use the squattier design, but it couldn't squeak loud enough for the cameras to catch, so they used this one. It became Jim's favorite and was subsequently used in every recording of the famous song." Leena pets the little duck on its head. "They say Jim actually used it when taking his bathes and would hash out all of his ideas to its plastic ducky ears. We believe being around all that talent and creativity embedded it with Artifact powers."

  


"Hear that Claudia? My ducky knows all of Jim Henson's secrets," Pete gives it two squeezes and puts it to his ear. "What's that ducky? Bert and Ernie are more than just good friends?" Pete lowers the duck and stares at it in disappointment. "You're no good Ducky, everybody know _that_."

  


"Goof," Myka taps the back of Pete's neck as she rises from her chair. "I'm going to try to sleep, see you all in-" she looks at her watch, "ugh, four hours."

  


The rest of the team stands up, says their goodnight, and shuffle to their respective accommodations as well.

  


"Hey Myka, wait up," Pete catches Myka just before she enters her room. "Can we talk for a sec?"

  


"Yeah sure, come on in."

  


Myka walks over to her bed and fiddles with her teddy bear, arranging and re-arranging it. Pete stands awkwardly in the middle of the room.

  


When a while passes without either of them speaking, Myka takes the initiative. "Look, about the last year-" she starts but is abruptly cut off by Pete ambushing her with a bear-hug.

  


Myka stiffens initially but after a few seconds she relaxes and hugs Pete back, laying her head on his shoulder. Pete squeezes her tighter.

  


"I'm really glad you're back," he says softly.

  


"Love ya', Pete."

  


"Love ya' back," he murmurs into her hair. "Don't worry, we'll get her back."

  


They stay like that for a long while. Myka notices that her eyes are leaking but Pete doesn't seem to mind.

  


After they detach they spend another hour goofing around, Pete playing with his rubber ducky, and Myka filling the many little loops on her holster-belts with bullets. Eventually Claudia joins in, attracted to the room by the high-pitched sounds of Pete's new toy. She braids Myka's hair.

  


When they finally leave, Myka feels incredibly grounded, incredibly at peace – just incredibly there. She falls asleep immediately. Mercifully, when morning arrives, Artie decides to let the entire team sleep in while he and Mrs. Frederic go over their plan once more.


	4. Part 3

"Ta na na na, ta-na na na na na. Ta na na na, ta-na na na na na… Pa pa pa! Chink, boom-boom, chink, pa chink, boom-boom chink. Wahhhhh, wah-wah-wah-wah wahhhhh, wah-wah-wah-wahhhh ta na naaaaa!"

  


"Pete! Shut-up!" Myka barks while rubbing her temple.

  


Pete freezes mid air-guitaring and looks at her with a startled expression. Myka knows that this is Pete's way of releasing some of his pent up excitement ahead of their big operation; but if she hears the din of "Battle Without Honor or Humanity" from the Kill Bill soundtrack being ebulliently screeched out of his throat one more time, well, there will be murder.

  


"Whaaat?" Pete whines, "This is our montage-track, we are having a planning montage, see?" he points at the many maps and papers strewn over Leena's breakfast table. Artie, Leena, and Mrs. Frederic are standing around the table poring over the documents with grave expressions and hunched-over postures. Claudia is setting up the projector.

  


"Pete, we are not having a _montage_ , come on!" she whacks his shoulder. "Pay attention!"

  


"Ouch," Pete rubs his shoulder. "Okay, okay, sheesh."

  


"What's going on there, children?" Artie rumbles at them.

  


"Myka thinks that since she has a pair of pistols, she can call all the shots," Pete whines.

  


Artie, Leena and Mrs. Frederic pause what they're doing to pointedly stare at him.

  


"Well okay," Pete scratches his ear. "I can see how wording it that way might not help my case-"

  


"Done!" Claudia announces; she flicks a switch on the projector, and the booting churn of a machine resonates through the room – completely disproportionate to the small and relatively unsophisticated appearance of the device.

  


"What the-" Pete starts after the machine's noise subsides to a manageable buzz and bluish-green beams shoot out of its lens.

  


"Ta-da!" Claudia sweeps her hands towards the image that is now being projected over the table. "A 3D rendition of the Knossos facility," she finishes with a flourish.

  


"Whoa!" Pete exclaims, moving his hand through the light show a few times. "This is even better than that Pinscreen map-thingy that the X-men had in the first movie."

  


"Great," Artie huffs. "Was it really necessary to dismantle _another_ artifact in order to get this little frivolity, Claudia?"

  


"Chill Art-man," Claudia calms him. "No Artifact was harmed in the making of this projector. Just good-old fashioned Musion 3D Holographic technology with a little bit of my own tweaks."

  


"Oh," Artie deflates.

  


"Impressive technology," Mrs. Frederic declares.

  


"You like?" Claudia asks with a pleased grin as she bounces a bit on the balls of her feet.

  


"I don't know if I would describe it as 'like'," Mrs. Frederic says. "But one must pause and take note of the times we live–when prevalent, accessible, supposedly normal technology can mimic the effect and shear wonder of an Artifact."

  


Artie tentatively waves his hand through the holographic image as well. "How did you manage to get this? The blueprints I mean."

  


"My super hacking powers."

  


Mrs. Frederic coughs.

  


"And Mrs. Frederic's password," Claudia adds hurriedly.

  


Artie waves his hands through the projection a few more times, as Mrs. Frederic starts giving them the rundown.

  


"The Knossos facility is built like a maximum-security bank and a maximum-security prison all rolled up into one. This includes motion sensors, hermetically sealed doors, depressurized rooms, video cameras, and a moat filled with Serrasalmus Nattereri."

  


"Sera-nutty-what now?" asks Pete.

  


"Red-bellied piranhas."

  


"Oh."

  


"We will approach the place by way of vehicle, from here." Mrs. Frederic continues as an arrow appears on the holographic map. "-and leave Leena in the truck with medical supplies as well as the last of the Iceflower fireworks–just in case.

  


"Now as you know, 'RF' type automatons staff most of the facility since living guards run the risk of exposing themselves to the Minotaur. Having said that, make no mistake, these automatons are built to be highly sophisticated and durable – enough to detect and subdue threats from without, and more importantly, from within.

  


"Luckily for us, the majority of security measures as well as the 'RF' type automatons are linked to the building's computerized outer defense grid, and as such can be accessed via these-" Mrs. Frederic points at some blinking dots on the map. "-type of control consoles. Naturally, our first move will be to place a hacker at such a location. It will be my job to get Ms. Donovan to a console and protect her while she works from there."

  


"How are you going to-"

  


"Don't ask Agent Latimer," Mrs. Frederic cuts Pete. "Needless to say, I will get her there and it will be up to her to disable as much of the outer defense grid as she can."

  


"No pressure," Claudia pips.  
  
  
  
"Do not worry Ms. Donovan, I am fully confidant in your abilities," Mrs. Frederic says. Claudia winces.

  


"While Claudia sabotages the defenses, it will be up to the rest of the team to get to this location." Mrs. Frederic points once more at another blinking dot on the map.

  


"This is the entrance to the inner layer of the facility. 20-tonne pressurized doors that can only be opened via retinal scan will block your path; luckily, Artie is one of the few people who have a high enough clearance rate to access them. These doors close automatically much like elevator doors; Therefore, Artie, you will have to remain at this point to keep them–and our Farnsworths' and comms ability to communicate with each other–open.  
  
All defenses herein after are off the outer computerized grid. This area is patrolled by 'S' type automatons, they are much larger than their 'RF' type brethren."

  


"About that," Pete says. "What does 'RF' stand for?"

  


"Rocket fuel," Mrs. Frederic answers.

  


"And 'S'?"

  


"Steam."

  


"Ah, Gotcha, the tiny modern robots can be hacked and the big hulking steam-punk robots cannot."

  


"Yeah, about that Pete," Claudia says. "The 'RF' Robots? Not so tiny," she adds as she pulls up their schematics.

  


"Yowza Claud! Those are friggin' B2 super battle droids!" Pete exclaims.

  


"Don't worry guys," Claudia says. "I've got your back on these 'RF' dudes, but once you reach the inner level you're on your own."

  


"That is why you must pay attention to the next part," Mrs. Frederic warns as the schematics for the 'S' type automatons appear. "If you encounter these automatons, you _must_ aim for the center of their torso where the breastbone of a human would be–that is where the punch card with their instructions resides. Scrambling their orders is the quickest way to disable them since otherwise they are nigh invulnerable."

  


"Great," Pete sighs, "so B2 super battle droids and the goddam _Golden Army_."

  


"Where next?" Myka asks.

  


"Down the rabbit hole and to the center," Mrs. Frederic says.

  


"This is where Asterion is kept." Artie points at the middle of the map. "You must keep the coast clear until our little surprise arrives."

  


* * *

  


"Goodnight Director." "Goodnight Sir."

  


The two security guards say as they leave the building for the night.

  


"Goodnight gentlemen," Abbot waves them off absentmindedly. Once they're out, he presses a button on the front lobby's main computer console.

  


"Computer, report all life signs in the Knossos compound."

  


"Warning: No life sign other than current inquirer's detected. Knossos facility protocols require at least one sentient living guard with a minimum security clearance of Theta-8 at the front desk at all times," answers the metallic sexless voice.

  


"Computer, log me as tonight's guard. Identity code: Alpha-Beta-Beta-Omega-Theta-One-Gama-Omega-Delta-Zero."

  


"So logged."

  


Abbot pulls out a USB drive from a chain around his neck and plugs it into the console.

  


"Special lock-down sequence initiated," says the computer. "Please enter password."

  


"Everlife."

  


"Password accepted. Good evening director," the computer now speaks with a pleasantly bland male voice. "Shall I prepare the lab?"

  


"Yes," Abbot says as he briskly walks into the depths of his facility.

  


* * *

  


Charles pulls the heavy sheet from over the contraption and blinks his eyes rapidly as a thick layer of dust is released into the dank air.

  


"So this is the second Time Machine."

  


"Ah!" Charles spins around with a start. He then bends over at the waist with his hand over his heart. "Goodness Mrs. Nanaimo, you do know how to sneak about, don't you?"

  


"Apologies Mrs. Wells, for my coming unannounced, I was curious about your sister's second invention."

  


"Hmm, yes, it does look rather ominous, doesn't it?" Charles says as he straightens up.

  


"I think that's mostly because we are in a poorly lit basement," Mrs. Nanaimo answers calmly.

  


"Yes, that might be it," Charles muses. "Well anyhow, I don't suppose you know how to get this thing started?"

  


* * *

  


The problem with plans is twice-fold: the obvious being that all too often they are hatched based on incomplete information.  
  
Alas, it is the second factor that is usually the more damaging, that is, that they are frightfully vulnerable to a number of extremely common–though easily overlooked–factors, namely: luck, chance, and simple human error.

  


"I can't find my Ducky!"

  


"Not now Pete!" Myka shouts.

  


"Oh my god! Where could I have lost it?"

  


"Seriously Pete! Not. Now." Myka accentuates each word with a shot from her pistols.

  


"Whew Myks, nice shooting, I think that was four 'bots in five Seconds," Pete hollers from his spot behind a pillar. "That leaves only one more," he murmurs to himself.

  


All around them havoc–and pieces from the walls and ceiling–reigns.

  


"Operator?" Pete says into his earpiece as he ducks a round of bullets coming in from his left; he coughs from the dust they create as they shatter concrete and plaster.

  


"20 yards ahead," comes Claudia's voice. "There'll be a T-juncture, take a right."

  


"Myka!" Pete shouts and waves his hand at her.

  


Myka looks up and just barely manages to role and duck under a piece of, what looks like, an entire wall that has been hurled at her by the last 'S' type robot in the room. She gets a fine cut on her forehead as gravel explodes from the thrown chunk when it hits the floor.

  


"Dammit," she swears under her nose as she rubs at the blood now trickling into her eye. She runs forward and takes cover behind a low metal console.

  


The 'S' type automaton charges towards her hideout looking to plow straight through it. Myka closes her eyes and takes a fortifying breath while she counts the heavy footsteps in her head, the timing between each stride is very close–indicating that the robot is running–yet still far enough apart to hint at its behemoth size.

  


_Shit, five more steps and I'm pita-bread_.

  


"Over here, ugly!" Pete shouts as he peeks out of his cover and flails his arms wildly.

  


The robot slows down to a stop nearly on top of Myka. If it could, it would blink at Pete.

  


"Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!"

  


The robot raises its big machine gun at Pete.

  


Myka takes the opportunity to leap over her console and dive between the robot's legs, shooting up at its robotic torso is she rolls.

  


"Bullseye!" she yells as the automaton sputters and shakes, sparks flying out its chest.

  


"Everything all right?" Artie's voice comes over both their comms.

  


"Yeah, we're good," Myka says into her mouthpiece as she reloads her pistols. Pete wipes the sweat from his face.

  


"Good, because I just saw Abbot walking by so you need to hurry."

  


"What? Artie, are you sure?" comes Mrs. Frederic's voice.

  


"Yes," he answers while Pete and Myka hurry onward. "I hid, he didn't see me, but he's now in the inner sanctum, and he looks pissed."

  


"Well of course," comes Claudia's voice. "I made all his 'RF' robots dance the Macarena. Oh, take a left here Pete. No! Your other left!"

  


"Sorry," Pete mumbles into his piece. "You okay, Myks?" He whispers to her sideways.

  


"We have to hurry," she says in way of answer. They start running.

  


"Dammit," says Mrs. Frederic over the comms. "He wasn't supposed to be here tonight, what on earth is he doing?"

  


"I knew that not seeing those two guards up front was too good to be true," Pete mutters.

  


"Forget about that now," Mrs. Frederic says. "Concentrate on getting to Asterion. Remember, we're on a tight time schedule here."

  


"Roger, roger, Mrs. F."

  


"Where to now, Claudia?" Myka asks as they reach another intersection.

  


"Left and down a ladder. That'll put you in front of the final door. Watch your six because I have no way to see or help you with any of the defenses there. Pete, you'll have to get to the main computer and describe it to me so I can tell you how to hack Asterion's releases. Myka, you'll have to make sure Pete stays alive because I'm guessing there'll be like, eleventy-billion robots there."

  


"Great and I'm without my lucky ducky," Pete informs Claudia.

  


"What! What happened to your ducky?"

  


"I don't know! It disappeared!"

  


* * *

  


Abbot is beside himself.

  


He had been working in his private lab when the warning claxons started blaring, catching him in the midst of a very complex procedure and causing him to slip and mess up weeks' worth of delicate work. His temper further flared when he asked the computer what was going on, and–astonishingly–the computer answered that it 'did not have sufficient data at this time'.

  


"Sufficient data…" Spittle flies out between snarling lips as Abbot mutters to himself.

  


He walks briskly down the corridors, his strides are long and stiff, his hands held tightly together behind his back. His lean figure is cutting into the shoddy illumination, throwing jumping, broken shadows over the wrecked automatons that are strewn in parts all over the floor. Clearly, he is dealing with an intruder–the automaton husks are facing to the exits and not the center.

  


"Irene," he seethes.

  


It must be her; he read her files. She is one of those annoying individuals who would 'never let one of her agents down', no matter how…deserving the agent was.

  


_And what an agent indeed_ , Abbot leers.

  


It was a risk accepting Ms. Wells into the 'Dreamer' program, what with her aforementioned association with Mrs. Frederic, and Mrs. Frederic's regrettable tendency towards 'loyalty'–Abbot Scoffs as he walks–but the potential benefits were too seductive to refuse. He knew Ms. Wells would be an exceptional binder, after all, he had read her files as well.  
  
And boy, did she deliver.

  


A whole year of uninterrupted work. The woman's mind was phenomenal, both in its complexity and in its mental fortitude.

  


It was _almost_ a pity to destroy such a brain; she could have been used to great results in so many other ways, ways that would better humanity, better the world.

  


_Almost, but not quite_ , thinks Abbot.

  


For he _knows_ , deep in his heart, that his use of Helena Wells is so much more forward-thinking than anything his arrested colleagues could possibly imagine. He i _so_ close, the solution is just around the corner; he can practically taste it.

  


Abbot clenches his fists tighter, a slight smirk forming on his lips as he continues his decent.

  


These last three months were exactly what he needed to make the next big leap in his research, he was back on track and it felt good, very good. Nobody would hinder his progress, not Irene, nor her underlings; not even Asterion himself. He would sacrifice another thousand brilliant minds if need be; after all, his goal–his mission–was practically holy: humanities next great ascension.

_It is my right!_

  


"Computer, have you managed to regain control of the facility."

  


"Negative, Director Abbot."

  


"Very well, initiate override procedure 'Grand Discharge," Abbot says with a sneer, his step never faltering.

  


"Warning sir, the procedure will release the undisclosed test subjects into the general facility. Are you sure you want to proceed?"

  


"I am, computer. I have everything under control."

  


* * *

  


"Shit! I just got booted out of the network!"

  


"What does that mean, Claudia?" Irene asks worriedly.

  


They are in a simple storage room, hiding between the cleaning supplies and surplus computer parts. Early on, Claudia decided that this would be their base of operations since it was out of the way, had an access console used normally for inventory, and plenty of spare parts. True to form, within minutes of apparating into the room, Claudia had altered the simple console into a beast worthy of any high-end military war room.

  


Claudia points at one of the many monitors that she has hooked up to the main console. "You see these dots and this room? These weren't there a minute ago, the dots _or_ the room. Something has changed, and when I want to investigate a hit a new firewall."

  


"What are they?" Mrs. Frederic points at the dots, now scattering across the perimeter.

  


"I don't know. Their icon labels them as 'Z type automatons' but I distinctly detect…organic material as part of their composition."  
  
Claudia and Mrs. Frederic stare at each other for a second.

  


"Shit!"

  


"Call Myka and Pete and inform them of this development," Mrs. Frederic calls over her shoulder as she walks to the room's exit.

  


"Wait! Where are you going?" Claudia yells after her.

  


"To get Artie."

  


"What about the hydraulic doors! We won't be able to communicate with Pete and Myka if Artie's not there!"

  


"Well, you'll just have to hack at those doors harder."

  


"Wha'! I just got thrown out of the regular interface, now you want to me to hack the unhackable door-"

  


But Mrs. Frederic has already disappeared.

  


* * *

  


"Claudia! Claudia can you read me? I'm in front of the computer thingy you said and there's a lot of...buttons," Pete yells into his comm, tapping repeatedly at the earpiece. "Claudia!"

  


His Tesla had run out of juice a long time ago, not that it mattered; it had no real effect on the steam robots.

  


"Pete I'm running out of ammo! Do something!" Myka hollers at him as she keeps running and shooting at the robots still standing in the room.

  


Pete pulls at his hair, trying to bite down the sense of hysteria that has been persistently creeping up his throat ever since the comms stopped working _Shit!_  
  
"I...I...ah-Myka! I can't reach Claudia! I think the sanctuary doors are closed!"

  


"What!"

  


"I know! I'm sorry!" Pete apologizes.

  


"Do something!" Myka keeps shooting.

  


"Like what?" he gestures at the convoluted console in front of him with both arms. "I don't even know what the words say! I think it's written in French or something."

  


"Pete!"

  


"I mean I'd have an easier time if it was even written in Klingon!" Pete rubs his forehead with both hands, "But French?"

  


"Pete!"

  


"What?!" he turns around.

  


"Duck!"

  


Pete has enough time to look up and see Myka hurtling towards him in a mighty leap. Behind her, an 'S' type robot is still convulsing and sputtering out as its comrade hurls its dying husk at them.

  


"Oh _Shit_!"

  


Pete and Myka hit the floor, barely missing the ex-robot as it flies above their heads and hits the giant metal tube behind the console Pete had been fiddling with. The tube gives a thundering metallic groan.

  


_Probably much like the Titanic gave just before it sunk_ , thinks Pete _How appropriate._

  


The remaining 'S' type robots cautiously advance up the steps to the console.

  


"I'm out of bullets," Myka whispers to Pete.

  


A loud metallic ping is heard as the tube behind the two prone and huffing agents opens up to reveal the bound and slumbering form of the Minotaur.

  


"That's enough!"

  


Myka's head turns towards the sound of the new voice; Pete's attention is still firmly entrapped by the horrifying visage of Asterion. The remaining robots seem to have stopped.

  


"Pete. Pete!"

  


"Ooof!" Pete rubs at his newly abused rib.

  


"Stay down," she hisses at him.

  


"Wha-"

  


"Just stay down!"

  


Slowly, Myka rises to her feat.

  


"You must be Abbot," she claims.

  


"Very astute, Miss Bering." Abbot claps his hands slowly.

  


"That's _Agent_ Bering to you, Mister." Myka says defiantly as she licks her lips and wipes the blood from her face on the back of her sleeve.

  


"Then that would be _Director_ Abbot to you, Missy." Abbot growls at her, his facade of civility evaporated.

  


"Is that so?" Myka stalls.

  


Crouching behind the master console and away from Abbot's eyes, Mrs. Frederic suddenly appears. She puts her finger to her lips in the universal sign for 'quiet'. Myka nods minutely, as Pete starts inching towards his boss.

  


"Tell me then _Director_ , what exactly it is that you are directing?" she addresses her oblivious foe.

  


"Why, the next step in human greatness, of course," Abbot preens. "The unattainable prize, the holy grail, the one advantage that separates me: Christopher Abbot, from _God_."

  


"What? A non-corporeal body and a hippy son?" Myka walks down from the console's podium, closer to Abbot and away from Pete and the still concealed Mrs. Frederic.

  


"No! You foolish woman _Immortality!_ the ability to live forever–remain young and virile forever!"

  


Behind them, Pete makes a lunge towards Mrs. Frederic and they both blink out of the room with nary a sound or a whisper.

  


"Dammit!" Abbot screams his face turning red as all remaining automatons uniformly raise their machine guns at Myka. "You tricked me! You'll pay for that!"

  


* * *

  


Pete and Mrs. Frederic reappear in Claudia's makeshift war-room; Artie is already there and is in the process of gearing up on Artifacts like some ridiculous version of Rambo. He tosses Pete a pink and white plastic wand with a smiling little unicorn head at its end.

  


"Where's Myka? What's happening?" Pete asks as he waves the wand a bit. The wall in front of Pete is immediately slashed with a large and angry burn mark, courtesy of the blinding light that had just burst out of his unicorn-wand.

  


Artie snatches the Artifact back. "Be careful with that!" he hisses. "This is a serious wand!"

  


"Gimme'," Pete says as he dances around Artie, trying to take back the wand. "Gimme', gimme', gimme'."

  


"Behave!" Artie grumbles.

  


Pete calms down slightly and with his best puppy face pleads, "please?"

  


"Fine," Artie relents as he passes back the garish plastic stick. "But _try_ to act like an adult."

  


"So now what?" asks Pete.

  


"I can't see into the confinement room, I'm blind to what's going on with Myka," Claudia informs them.

  


Pete turns to Mrs. Frederic. "You need to get her out of there."

  


"I can't do that Peter," Mrs. Frederic says as she gently pats his shoulder. "This mission is too important to abort. We can only hope that things are going according to plan and give Agent Bering as much background support as possible."

 

Mrs. Frederic comes over to Claudia's chair and leans over her shoulder to look at the screens. "So now we are left with the task of defending the inner sanctum form a considerable amount of 'Z' type automatons," she says.

  


Claudia looks at the monitors worriedly as Artie continues to stock-up on Artifacts and Pete lets out steam by prancing around with his new gadget.

  


"Zombie-robots," she whispers.

  


* * *

  


Back at the containment room, Abbot lifts his arm to point a skeletal finger at Myka.

  


"No one can stop me!" he grinds out between clenched teeth. "Asterion is the key! He is the tree of life and I am the scythe that will harvest its fruit!"

  


"Scythes are used for low growing crops _dumbass_ , not trees; with that analogy you'd be more of a fruit clipper than a scythe."

  


"How dare you!"

  


"How dare I?" Myka draws one of her pistols at lightning speed and points it at Abbot. Abbot lifts both his hands in surprise.

  


"This is one of Dallas Stoudenmire pistols, it's fully loaded and it cannot miss," Myka bluffs.

  


"You're bluffing," Abbot says, not sounding too sure of himself.

  


"Am I?" Myka asks, lifting her chin and fidgeting slightly.

  


"Ye...Yes you are."

  


"Well than try me. Call on your robots and let's see who can shot faster," Myka dares.

  


"Maybe I will."

  


"Then do it."

  


"I will."

  


"Go on then."

  


"I sha-"

  


A clinking sound echoes through the room. Slowly, both Myka and Abbot turn their heads to look at the main podium and the breached tube behind it. Asterion's shackles are open.

  


"It can't be!" Abbot whispers in horror.

  


Myka lowers her pistol. The Minotaur sits up, rubs his previously bound wrists, and looks at them both.

  


A whole half minute passes with nary a breath to be heard.

  


Then, Abbot promptly turns around and flees–his screams echoing down the corridors. The 'S' type automatons seem to power down in his absence.

  


"Well, that was anti-climatic," the Minotaur rumbles, his voice sounding as low as the deepest cave, as gravely as a mountain breaking, as unsettling as the most disturbing of nightmares, also it sounds distinctly British.

  


"Charles?" Myka asks with a slight bracing to her posture.

  


"Present and accounted for, you must be Miss Bering," the beast answers politely.

  


"Wow, excellent timing," Myka relaxes.

  


"Yes, well, I was cheating–advanced time machine and all, you know how it is," Charles, now in Minotaur form, smiles horrifically.

  


Myka winces at the attempt.

  


"Hey Myka," Myka hears Claudia's static-y voice from her radio receiver, "I just wanted you to know that I managed to break the final firewall a few minutes ago, so I can see you again; also the Minotaur might be free from his shackles."

  


"Thanks Claude," Myka deadpans with her hand on her earpiece.

  


"You're welcome."

  


Myka rolls her eyes and turns to the Minotaur. "This way," she gestures with her hand.

  


"Right-o." He hops off the metallic slab with a little leap that shakes the room. "By the way, you wouldn't happen to have a time-piece on you, would you?"

  


* * *

  


Mrs. Fredric wipes the sweat from her brow and ducks behind their makeshift barricade as shrapnel's and cadaver parts splatter on the wall behind, beside her Artie if huffing and puffing.

  


"I must admit, Agent Lattimer is most impressive," she informs the winded man.

  


They both peek behind their shelter to see Pete standing on a pile of office furniture as he hurls shiny rainbow rays of light at the robot-zombies with his unicorn wand. He is shouting instructions to Claudia through his headpiece as the two of them work in tandem to funnel and control the oncoming waves of the bionicly-undead.

  


"Indeed," Artie agrees over Pete's yell of 'Zurg-rush!'

  


A lull in the action allows Pete to sprint towards them and take cover.

  


"Good job Agent Lattimer," Mrs. Fredric says.

  


"Thanks Mrs. F," Pete answers. "I think I've gained a level."

  


"This is not a game, Pete!" Artie shouts at him. "Take care of yourself!"

  


Pete looks appropriately chastised, and Artie regrets his outburst immediately. He reminds himself that different people have different ways to handle stress and trauma. "Eh, yeah, never mind, sorry," he pats Pete's hand awkwardly.

  


"Well, Pete might have not gained a level, but I sure did," Claudia informs them through the radio. "My tower defense has just gotten upgraded. Ladies, my I point your attention to stage left," she says as a host of 'RF' type automatons rush forward and join the fray, they immediately attack the 'Z' type robots whose ebb had just picked up once again.

  


Artie, Pete, and Mrs. Fredric duck out of their shelter to continue raining down light and destruction on the seemingly never-ending flow of Zombie-bots.

  


"Well, at least I should get XP for staying in character," Pete mutters as he blasts another foe into tiny little bits.

  


"Heck, Pete. If was survive this, not only will you have gained a level!" Artie yells over the commotion as they strategically swap places and continue to fire. "I'll personally put a gold star on your badge!" he claps his hand on Pete's back.

  


_Ha!_ Pete smiles _Myks will be so jealous_.

  


* * *

  


Getting to the "Power Room"–Myka chafes at the name, but that's what it is called in the blue prints–turns out to be much easier than getting into the containment room.  
  
The corridors are eerily quiet as if most of the, well _building's_ attention is focused elsewhere. When she tells this to Charles, he agrees.

  


"I have always felt that Warehouse 12 had a subtle personality to it," he informs her as he takes a peek at the watch currently strapped around his forefinger like a ring, it is Myka's and is too small for his presently enormous wrist. "Mayhap this building is similarly endowed with a conscientiousness?"

  


"Hmm, I don't think so," she muses. "I think it's more like this place has a computer running the show, and if that's true then I think I know what's distracting it."

  


"One of your compatriots?" he asks as they turn a corner and start their descent down a seemingly endless flight of stairs.

  


"Yes. Namely, Claudia," she answers.

  


Myka's headpiece comes to life. "Somebody called my name?"

  


"Claud!" Myka stops mid step. Charles turns to look at her.

  


"What's going on, is everyone okay?" she asks the young woman. She's sure she can hear the wailing of a claxons in the backgrounds.

  


"Yup, we're keeping down the fort for you. Now that I've torn down most of the security system, I can see you very clearly; you're the little red dot that's standing next to the big flashing skull icon. I'm guessing that would be Charles?"

  


Myka looks over at the politely shuffling Minotaur; he's looking at the walls, the floor, the watch, trying not to intrude on her conversation.

  


"Yup."

  


"Give him an earpiece; I stuck an extra one in your fanny-pack," she informs Myka.

  


"Good thinking."

  


"I know. There's also a Data pad in there," Claudia informs her, "onto which I am currently downloading an updated map–you know, now that I've managed to hack absolutely everything."

  


Myka takes a look.

  


"What are these green dots at the 3rd juncture from the left?" she asks as she lifts the little hand held device to show Charles who is standing at a safe distance as to not contaminate her.

  


"More steam robots," Claudia replies over the radio.

  


"And the blinking red dots in the other corridor?"

  


"Spring powered floor spikes."

  


"The glowy bits on the walls?"

  


"Flame-thrower booby traps."

  


"Hmm."

  


"Just let Charles walk first and trigger them all, it's not like he can die," Claudia muses.

  


"I'd rather not get hurt," says Charles awkwardly into his new radio transceiver, he has not yet gotten the hang of it and keeps trying to look at the mouthpiece instead of letting it hang near his jowls. "I've come to understand that any part of this body left unchecked could trigger quite a catastrophe."

  


"Quite," Myka agrees.

  


"Welp, slow and steady it is." Claudia agrees. "Just don't take too long, or Pete might get hungry, and then he'll get whiny, and nobody likes a whiny Pete."

  


"Take care Claudia," Myka wishes the girl as she signs off for the moment. She hopes Claudia's flippant disposition is no _too much_ of an act, she could piece out some of the chaos from the background noise of her earpiece. She starts walking again, her steps infused with greater purpose.

  


"Quite a character there," Charles says cautiously, once again looking discreetly at the clock on his finger. They are continuing their decent while carefully avoiding the traps marked on Myka's little blinking map.

  


"Yes. Claudia is, well, she's great. The little sister I never had, and of course there's Pete, Artie too, and Leena, even Mrs. Frederic, they're amazing."

  


"I'm so happy Helena found such a wonderful family, you all seem to love each other very much, I'm sure she loves you all as well."

  


"Yeah, really loves us…" she trails off awkwardly. Charles looks at her again and seems to be about to ask her something that she's sure she doesn't want to answer.

  


"So you said warehouse 12 had a personality? What was it like?" she quickly changes the subject. Charles is too smart not to understand that there is something unfinished there, his curiosity is peaked, Myka can tell, but she is banking on the fact that he's too polite to prey, and true to form he lets her off the hook.

  


"I wasn't an agent," he answers as they continue to their destination, "but I have managed to find myself in its bowls a few times. There always seemed to be a somewhat dry atmosphere to the place, proper-like, dignified, efficient, yet polite."

  


"So, basically kind of British," she deadpans.

  


Charles throws her a sheepish look, which Myka thinks is oddly becoming considering his features are currently mostly cow-looking.

  


He is about to say something else, but the Data pad beeps, informing them that they have arrived to their final destination. Myka spots a glowing red button next to the large metal doors she is currently standing in front of, and presses it. She takes a deep breath as they quietly swoosh open.

  


Before her is a scene straight out of the nightmares of Hans Rudolf Giger. Myka cannot move as her brain tries to take it all in, the endlessly sprawling machine, the tubes, the blinking lights, the occasional electric current skittering along the cables, the shear enormity of it all.

  


She is torn out of her stupor by a toe curly scream. There, in the middle of it all is Helena, her Helena, half-naked and spread angled, writhing in pain with her eyes shut tightly and her mouth open and curling over her teeth in a perpetual expression of anguish.

  


Myka runs. She is vaguely aware of the massive form of Charles sprinting right beside her, but before she can reach her target she is thrown to the floor and nearly burnt to death by a random electrical current that had decided to spark to her left. She groans.  
  
When she finally rises to her feet, she realizes that Charles has been shouting at her for the past several minutes.

  


"Miss Bering! We must do this properly!" He sounds more and more savage as his agitation grows. "If we don't time this precisely–this will all be for naught!"

  


"Okay, okay, I'm with you." She tells him, but she can't help her eyes slightly watering as she takes a quick look at Helena.

  


"Mrs. Nanaymo is scheduled to release me form the mark 2 Temporal Consciousness Transfer Engine in exactly," he looks at his watch. "Seven minutes. By then this body _must_ be strapped into the swapping mechanism," he points at a second interface console. "To be switched over as the main power supply. I must be released from this era of time before the exchange occurs, otherwise the process will have already started and my mind would not know what is reality and what is not–even if I am safely returned to my original body."

  


"Like inception," Myka murmurs.

  


"What?"

  


"You are taking quite the risk for her," Myka softly says.

  


"So are you," He points out. "If we don't hurry the Minotaur will truly be unleashed. This building or some other fail-safe might yet contain him, but you yourself will surely perish. She is my sister, my blood, my only living relative, and my best and oldest friend," Charles informs her. "What is your excuse?"

  


"I love her," Myka says simply, her already watery eyes finely spill over; she angrily wipes away the tears.

  


They start inching towards the transfer console and the computer beside it, this time in a much more wary manner.

  


"She has hurt you." It is not a question.

  


Myka shrugs.

  


"Oh Helena, you fool," Charles laments with a sigh. "I am so sorry," he tells Myka kindly.

  


"Not your fault."

  


"You know what?" Charles asks her as he carefully lowers his massive frame into the chair. "When she wakes up, I give you permission to hit her upside the head."

  


Myka barks out a surprised laugh, quickly putting a hand over her mouth.

  


"No, really, I Charles Whitney Wells, hereby give you Myka-"

  


"Ophelia," Myka reveals as she cautiously straps him to the evil-dentist-chair like contraption, the task made infinitely more difficult by the fact that she mustn't actually touch him.

  


"-Myka Ophelia Bering, permission to smack my sister whenever she acts like a ninny."

  


"I'll be sure to do that," she smiles at him as they finally maneuver the last strap.

  


"Pull hard, don't let him get away."

  


Myka does so, putting both her feet against the chair and pulling until she actually hears the Minotaur groan.

  


"Thanks Charles."

  


"You are welcome. Now take a step back, once I leave you must act quickly," he swallows hard. "Here goes nothing."

  


Myka retreats and waits a few more seconds until suddenly Charles stiffens violently, the chair he's in barley holding him.

  


"Charles?" Myka asks tentatively.

  


What then turns to look at her is beyond this world.

  


A second passes before the beast ignites in pure rage, his screams and snarls nearly shattering Myka's eardrums. She tries to run to the second console to start the transfer process, but her knees give out from the sheer power of her dread. This is beyond anything she's ever felt–it is primal, it is death–this is beyond the fear of the _prey_ , this is the fear of the _victim_.

  


Myka crawls on her hands and knees, her eyes staring resolutely at her target, or at least trying to do so from between the blurry screen of her tears. She can sense the Minotaur behind her, his presence seaming to grow like a shadow. She can hear the metal of his chair screeching and groaning. Has he broken free yet? Will _this_ be the second she feels his hands upon her? Or perhaps it will be this one? Her world narrows down to steps and heartbeats, feet and seconds, every pulse is its own eternity of fear, every measure of distance seemingly longer and more impossible than the last.

  


_Stay on the target Myka!_ she screams inside her head, _the console, just get to the console, your mission is there, Helena is there. Helena._

  


With that Myka reaches her destination, she pulls herself up the console through the power of her arms and what little is left of her will _That's it, look at her, don't look at him, just keep looking forward, no matter what you hear, no matter what you think is happening behind your back._

  


She starts inputting the transfer sequence Claudia had drilled into all their brains the night before. Mechanically she goes through windows and drop-down menus, she enters parameters and presses buttons, fingers stiff and cold sweat covering her entire body, her mind has checked out a while ago and she is functioning on pure auto-pilot. Eventually, she arrives at the final popup question, shining at her in plain black text 'Would you like to start the process?'  
  
  
  
She clicks 'Okay'.

  


The Minotaur's tune changes abruptly, like a barking dog that's been suddenly kicked; he yelps and starts to howl a series of high-pitched pain-filed cries.

  


Myka covers her ears; this is almost more terrible than the rage.

  


She checks on the console that everything is all right, and quickly moves to free Helena from her bounds, the brunette remains unconscious but Myka can't worry about that right now. She hefts Helena into her arms and flees; she cannot stand one more second of the horrible sounds coming from the Labyrinth's Prisoner, Monster, and now jail-keeper.

  


* * *

  


Pete, Artie, and Mrs. Frederic are standing outside the open hydraulic doors of the inner sanctum.

  


"I told you all these artifacts would come in handy!" Artie exclaims after he evaporates one of the last 'Z' type automatons that were still running around.

  


Pete, having just melted another of the monsters, huffs and straightens up. "You da' man, Artie. And let me just say that I no longer like Zombies, or Robots, an _especially_ not Zombie-robots."

  


"Quite right, Mr. Lattimer" Mrs. Frederic adds as, in front of her, the truly last Zombie-robot melts into a disgusting pile of metal and fleshy goo. Mrs. Frederic lowers the spatula she is holding. "Now I believe it is time to go rescue your comrade."

  


"Too late, she's already on her way here with H.G." Claudia shouts as she runs into the room.

  


"Claudia!" Artie yells happily. "Wait, why are you running?"

  


"Because," she huffs and bends over at the waste after coming to a screeching halt beside him. "I set the system to lock down the entire perimeter in 5 minutes."

  


"What?!"

  


"It's okay Artie," she says as she puts a hand on his shoulder and straitens up, she then points to the inner sanctum's crumbling entrance.

  


Myka Bering is standing on a mound of rubble that has piled up in front of the damaged doorways. One foot raised on a slightly higher step, clothes dirty and ripped in certain places, she is bleeding again from the cut over her eye, her hair is wild and her pistols are strapped to her thighs in their crisscrossed holsters. In her arms, she is cradling Helena in the classical passed-out damsel in distress pose; all around her are the broken bodies of her enemies.

  


"So cool," Pete mumbles.

  


"Is she okay?" asks Mrs. Frederic.

  


"I don't know," Myka says as Artie rushes to help her while she stumbles awkwardly off the heap.

  


"No time to check," Claudia reminds them. "We're out of here."

  


* * *

  


Pete is leading the escape, with Artie, Mrs. Fredric, and Myka–who has refused to relinquish Helena–in the middle, Claudia is bringing up the rear. They are rushing out of the building just as the entire complex goes into total shut down, complete with metal blast doors springing from the ground and thousands of metric tons of half-formed cement being poured over the entire area, oozing down like some bizarre cement volcano from secret emergency openings in the surrounding grounds.

  


They are halfway across the narrow bridge that spans over the moat when Pete's spidey-senses start tingling.

  


"Guys, guys, wait." He raises his arms to keep everybody at bay. They all stop and try to figure out what's wrong; all of them knowing by now that Pete's hunches are not to be trifled with.

  


"Oh no," Artie says as Abbot appears from behind one of the bridge's trusses, one hand pointing a handgun at Pete and the other hand firmly around Leena's throat.

  


"What?" Abbot asks. "You thought you could just win?" he hisses through clenched teeth.

  


Pete immediately lifts his hands in a sign of surrender "Hey man, hey, just take it ea-"

  


"Easy?" Abbot screams. "Yes! Yes I am going to take it," he says, as he slowly starts moving forward with Leena gasping and chocking against his chest. "And by 'it' I mean your pathetic little life!" He continues, still inching forward, eyes shooting daggers and pure hatred at Pete. "And yes, it _will_ be easy."

  


"Look, let's just talk about this," Pete says as he starts backing away.

  


"No agent Latimer," Abbot says, still moving forward, still crowding the group with his madness and his gun. "No talking, especially not from the likes of you. My work is too important to be foiled by such insignificant creatures! I am Christopher Abbot! You are all nothing!" he screeches while waving his gun carelessly at Pete and tightening his hand around the silently crying Leena. "I have the power! Me! Not you. You pests, you roaches! You are all dirt beneath my feet!"

  


"Yeah, man, you have the power, you're totally He-man," Pete says in a calming tone as he continues to inch his way backward with the rest of the team.

  


"I do! And nothing, _nothing_ can stop m-"

  


Abbot is suddenly caught off guard as his leg slips on something small and brightly colored on the floor.

  


Then, several things happen all at once,

  


The thing on the floor lets out a high-pitched squeal that further shakes Abbot's equilibrium; Leena manages to land a well-placed elbow to Abbot's gut and immediately ducks forward; and finally, Pete rushes over to Leena and shoves Abbot backwards; this all results in Abbot stumbling back, dropping his gun, and losing his balance over the side of the bridge. As Abbot starts falling into the moat, his flailing limbs fling the little obstacle that had brought about his–quite literal–downfall in a perfect arch, up, up in the air and straight into the astonished hands of one Pete Latimer.

  


Abbot continues to yell threats and thrash in the waters as a school of Piranha fish descend upon him.

  


Claudia rushes up to Pete and stares at the little yellow object in Pete's hand. Pete gives it another squeeze and the little plastic duck dutifully lets out its distinctive squeal.

  


"Huh," Says Claudia. "Well, shit."

  


In the background, Abbot's dying screams slowly ebb away.


	5. Epilogue

Time…passes.  
  
She swims in it, drowns in it, blind to its direction. However, it definitely moves, as time is wont to do.

 

She wakes to the smell of something baking–a pastry of some sort. It smells wonderful.

 

She's lying under something heavy and soft, a down comforter, it makes her feel grounded. There is sun on her face; she can sense it like a hand on her cheek. She opens her eyes.

 

Her sight is utterly fuzzy and no matter how much she blinks, the blur doesn't go away. From what she _can_ perceive, she is in some sort of quaint rustic room: white walls - definitely, wooden floor - perhaps, handcrafted furniture, also made of wood - maybe. Her eyesight is still not up to par.

 

There is a small table close by with a white tablecloth and what seems to be a vase of freshly picked flowers–small ones, bluish and white.

 

"Lavender and Yarrow," she hazards, mostly by smell.

 

There is a sudden clatter from right beside her as a previously unnoticed occupant loses his book to the floor, startled by her scratchy guess.

 

"Helena, you're awake!"

 

The speaker says it so fondly it nearly breaks her heart.

 

A man then, but who?

 

He reaches for her hand as he rises from a chair and then sits next to her on the edge of the bed, his other hand comes up to stroke her cheek and there's something about the familiarity of the gesture that pulls at her; like a memory, like a dream re-remembered.

 

She tries to look harder but her eyes refuse to focus, all she can see is a semblance of a person, youngish, lean, fair-haired she thinks, and tidy looking from what she can tell.

 

"Welcome back," he whispers. He sounds British.

 

And suddenly she feels…overwhelmed, like she's about to panic from something she doesn't fully understand yet.

 

"I…I was…there wasn't…I couldn't-"

 

"Calm down, darling," he says softly. "You've been asleep for so long."

 

The voice is all wrong, as is the body it belongs to, but the mannerism, the accent, the infliction.

 

"Charlie…" she rasps.

 

She feels so tired, as if she hasn't slept in forever yet has slept for far too long. Her brain is going a mile a minute yet getting nowhere, like a hamster in a ball. Exhausting, Pointless.

 

"Sleep again, dearest, the good kind; the healing process is not yet finished." She feels him fiddling with something at her head, a device of some sort. "There are pathways and grey bits, and white bits and all sorts of bits that need be rebuilt – or so I'm told."

 

He picks up his fallen book.

 

"When you wake again she'll be here for you. In fact, she'd be here right now if not for that elephant statue that's been shrinking the good citizens of Massachusetts,  it's quite the ordeal, I almost feel bad for borrowing agent Jinks again, I'm sure he's missing quite the adventure…"

 

She doesn't catch the rest of it, it's too much to swallow and she's so very exhausted. She's out like a candle once more.

 

More time passes.  
  
This time in a linear, if not quantifiable, fashion.

 

The second time she wakes it's to the sweetest sensation, like butterfly wings gently caressing her lips. The sensation is just light enough to be frustrating, and she finds herself straining her neck in her search for a more gratifying contact. Alas, the presence is moving away, and with it, a sense of comforting warmth and a sweet scent.

 

"Nooo…" she whined with her eyes still close.

 

"Well hello there sleeping beauty," she hears a familiar voice. A happy voice, but also a relieved one, as if a great sadness has not quite left its owner. She tries opening her eyelids but they are so very heavy.

 

"It's okay, Love," she hears, "you're allowed to rest a little longer." And again those lips ghosting, this time over her cheek, her nose, her eyelids.

 

 _Love_ , she thinks, _she called me love._

 

Who is this delightful creature with the butterfly lips, and the sunshine presence, and the smile–both happy and sad–in her voice?

 

It bothers her, this half-formed recognition, just out of reach. She knows this woman, but she's afraid that the more she thinks about her, the deeper the memory will burrow into her subconsciousness, never to be seen again; and she'd much rather bask in an unfinished dream then chase after a lost one. Therefore, she floats in a state of purposeful release, tensely trying _not_ to peruse any strain of thought lest she lose this wonderful presence beside her.

 

"Just rest for now, the entire gang will be here shortly for the daily visit," the voice says. "Although it'd be really great if you could wake up again before they're here. It's getting harder and harder to stop Pete from scribbling all over your forehead with a magic marker."

 

Her eyes fly open.

 

"Myka."


End file.
